Kind of by Accident
by Ham Atom
Summary: RPM. Following the events of "Go for the Green," Ziggy has a few issues, not the least of which being minor injury. Dillon and Ziggy friendship; team building. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

Spoilers: Anything up to "Go for the Green." Also "Ranger Green." If you haven't seen the episodes lately, you can watch them all on youtube. I would.

Disclaimer: I do not own Power Rangers: RPM. It's always so hard not to laugh while typing these words.

A/N: This story is mostly finished, (I wanted a story on here actually labeled "complete") so the postings should be up as soon as I polish each one.

Chapter 1

"A few things about the rules about taking the, ah, uniform out on dates? Because I think chicks would dig it. Am I right? I know Scott…you know what I'm talking about." He trailed behind the group that was pointedly ignoring him, resisting the urge to look back at the computer screen to see if Dr. K would bring up a pair of animated eyes to roll. If the Zords were any indication, Dr. K had a thing for animated eyes. He let out a breath and stopped talking.

_Well. That could've gone worse._ And it could've. As Ziggy Grover—brand spankin' new operator of Ranger Series Green—powered down fully, he figured at least no one had tried to kill him. Though he was relatively certain Dillon wouldn't let that happen. Well…maybe _relatively_ relatively certain. Brooding, frowny, Ranger Black had done a pretty spectacular job keeping him alive so far at least. On multiple occasions. Ziggy sort of had the feeling Dillon would've done that for anybody. Heck, he would've done it for _Jell-O_. But still.

His skin tingled with the retreating energy, and he imagined the Green suit appearing in its little cylinder in the lab, next to the other suits where it belonged. Then the sudden crippling pain in his wrist didn't give him much time to dwell on any symbolic ironies there.

Doubling over, cradling his left wrist, he saw the swelling and the colors and the general disfigurement beneath his new morpher. _Oh. Yeah. That._ Amid the clearer memories of a feral smile, impossibly strong, feminine hands, and purple spandex—hers had to be real spandex, right?—he remembered the vaguer moment where Tenaya 7 had grabbed his wrist as they struggled for the Green Morpher. _His_ Green Morpher. He'd heard a pop then, before he'd morphed. And he'd felt sick for a second, but there hadn't been pain. Now apparently, the pain center of his brain felt cheated and thought it necessary to catch him up on all he'd missed.

_Oh. Well. This is sort of fantastic, isn't it?_ It was bad pain. And he felt sick again on top of it. Some very persistent tears stung his eyes, but he ordered them to stay where they were. He looked toward where the rest of the team had gathered around the kitchen counter. Wasn't it just a few hours ago they were smiling at him, telling him _Good work, Ziggy, _looking at him like he was actually part of something? 'Cause now it felt like years ago. Scott was slumped at the bar, and right then that guy could've given _Dillon_ lessons in brooding. Flynn was putting together smoothies for everyone, his movements practiced and familiar, focusing on something that wasn't the problem—that wasn't _Ziggy_. Summer looked like she wanted to argue both sides, and he could appreciate the fact that she was at least torn. And Dillon… Well, Dillon was leaning against the wall, unreadable. But Dillon was over there with them.

Ziggy swallowed. And he was sure the swell of tears was entirely because of the immense, unbearable pain in his wrist and not at all because of the fact that he suddenly felt very, very alone.

He turned away. That was just silly.

The stairs were mounted quickly, quietly, his wrist held protectively against his chest, and it _hurt._ It throbbed with every heartbeat, so much that he caught himself almost wishing the darn organ would quit beating altogether. _Oh, wait, no, that would be bad, wouldn't it. Please tell me I'm not getting delirious._ On top of that, his head ached, and he was so tired, and everything seemed generally terrible and unable to be fixed.

He padded down the hall into his and Dillon's room. Well, it was probably technically only Dillon's room. But Ranger Black had been letting him bunk in there the last few days without much more trouble than a few eye rolls and stern looks. It wasn't like Ziggy had anywhere else to go. And besides, it was all Dillon's fault Ziggy was there in the first place. Yeah, Ziggy had had the arguments all saved up. Still hadn't had to use them yet, though.

Ziggy shut the door behind him and leaned on it, carefully sliding off the cause of all this trouble. He pushed the morpher into his pocket and took stock of the damage. His left wrist was about twice the size of his right, and it was just a little bit off. He couldn't move it very well. And trying to move it immediately seemed like a terrible idea. There was numbness inside the pain, and somehow that numbness didn't make it hurt any less. Pretty colors, though. Lots and lots of pretty colors.

_I have to do something about this._ He made a face. Not good. But what was he supposed to do? If he went down there now whining about an injury—while everyone was still deciding on whether or not to murder him, rig a new morpher, and find a Ranger Green who was actually qualified—it probably wouldn't do much for his case. Scott and Dr. K would be proven right. He was a weakling. A liability. Nothing more.

_Well, I don't need them._ He could do this by himself. He'd had to patch himself up hundreds of times. He'd even popped his shoulder back in once when it was dislocated. The memory made him shiver still. That hadn't been a good day. But anyway, Scott and Dr. K and Summer and Flynn and Dillon would never have to know, and he could smile, he could always smile, and say something that made them roll their eyes away and not look at him. He could do this, and he could heal, and nobody would ever know he'd been too weak to keep himself safe.

Setting his jaw, he went to the computer, pulled up everything he could on the human wrist, and tried not to despair. There were a _lot_ more bones in there than in his shoulder. Not that he expected any different. But come on, seriously? A skeletal image of the wrist stood out on the screen with all those tiny little intricate pieces. Mocking him. He glared at the monitor. "How many times a day must I be ridiculed by a computer screen?" He growled suspiciously at the offending hardware. "Don't look at me like that. I know your type." It was a few seconds before he realized that was a pun and wanted to bang his head on the keyboard.

He sat there in the computer chair for a minute, building up courage. Wouldn't do a lot of good to put it off. Actually, it would probably do a lot of harm to put it off. He wished he'd been able to smuggle some ice or something up to the room. Of course, with everyone gathered in the kitchen, that would've been impossible. Didn't stop him from wishing. He went to the closet. It was mostly empty. He and Dillon had come with next to nothing, and neither he nor Dillon had a lot of time for shopping. But they had managed to pick up a few things on the government's dime. Of course, Dillon's side consisted mostly of black shirts.

Ziggy grabbed the only belt he had—the black, imitation leather one he'd been wearing with the remains of his suit the day he met Dillon. Then he crammed the end of it in his mouth. He went back to his bed. Sat down carefully. He didn't _think_ he would pass out. He hadn't passed out when he'd popped his shoulder back in. Oh, but he had thrown up though. Yeah, that _really _hadn't been a good day.

_Hm. Well… Haven't eaten that much today. _He shook his head. _Okay, stop psyching yourself out, and just do it already._

He felt along his wrist. Glanced back at the computer screen. He thought he had a general idea of what needed to happen. He could feel himself sweating, his breathing quick, in and out through his nose. His hand tightened on his wrist, tears pooling in his eyes. He bit down hard on the belt.

_Knock, knock._ "Ziggy, you in there?"

The voice stopped him, throwing his heart up into his throat, and he just about choked trying to spit out that belt. "Don't come in!" And if his voice sounded high and hysterical, well...not much he could do about it.

A pause. "Um…why?"

"Uh, I'm…" Ziggy thought fast, "naked."

A longer pause. "Why…?"

"I…I was going to take a shower." That sounded legit.

"So…you were going to…what? Streak down the hallway?"

Oh. That was a devastatingly excellent point. The bathroom was two doors down. "I…um. Well." Ziggy tried to sound convincing. "No. But…I have…a robe that…I wear. And I was going to put it on…"

"Well, go ahead and put it on, Ziggy." Dillon was being very patient, all things considered. The fact that he was beginning to talk through his teeth notwithstanding.

_Well, this isn't working at all. _"Do…ah…do you need something, Dillon?"

"Tell you what I don't need. I don't need to knock to go into my own room. You got three seconds to get decent. You need me to count?"

Ziggy sighed and dropped his head to his chest. Threw the belt toward the closet with his good hand. "No."

Dillon didn't count out loud. But exactly three seconds later, the door opened, and Ranger Black stood there, and it seemed like he took up the whole doorway. Ziggy did everything possible not to think of the pain flooding up his arm. Instead he offered a dumb grin.

Dillon looked pointedly at his fully-clothed form. "Nice shirt," was the comment. Good ol' sarcasm. Guy didn't ask him to explain the lie, though.

Ziggy pointed with a wink. "Hey, back atcha."

Dillon crossed to sit on his own bed. "Dr. K's calling for your head. I think he wants us to train you to death."

There was a flutter in his chest that felt like panic. He swallowed past it and kept his voice bright. "Sounds slow and painful."

Dillon shrugged, unconcerned, and leaned back on the bed. "It's weird, isn't it?" he asked absently. "The whole Dr. K thing."

"Disembodied voice? Mm-yeah. Before this is all over, I really, _really_ want an opportunity to say 'Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.'" He got a blank look in return. "You know. Like _Wizard of Oz?"_ Still blank. "Really? Okay, you _will_ watch it with me. Soon. Classic movie musicals are what separate us from the likes of Venjix."

"Here I thought it was our beating hearts and our inescapable mortality."

"Now you're just being sentimental." It made Dillon smirk, and that made Ziggy smile. Dillon didn't smirk that way unless he thought something was really funny.

Dillon tucked his hands behind his head. "Well, whoever or whatever he is, Dr. K has kind of a knack for knowing what's going on in here."

Hmm…that was an odd segue. "Eerie."

"Yeah. He mentioned to me your vitals were 'more erratic than normal and it is possible you are having some sort of post-traumatic experience.'" Casual. Very casual.

"Wait. The Doc is worried about my _mental_ health? Huh. That's a little bit precious. And disturbing."

"I said it was stupid." Dillon nodded. But then he shifted uncomfortably and sat up on his elbows so he could look at him. "It is, right?"

"Very stupid," Ziggy agreed. He wasn't coming unglued figuratively. He was just falling apart literally.

"Good. Because that's what I said."

"You did say that," he nodded.

"Right." Dillon stood abruptly, actually seemed relieved. Ziggy was curious about that, but there were a few more pressing issues. Like the fact it felt like his arm had been chewed off. Dillon crossed to the door, and Ziggy was glad and sort of afraid at the same time. But the older guy stopped. Took another step forward and stopped again. Then, almost reluctantly, he turned around. Didn't say anything for a second. Then out of nowhere, "You're going to be fine, you know. You don't have to worry." His eyes were dark and intense, and Ziggy could never look at them very long while he had every intention of lying.

"Who's worried?" There wasn't an answer. Not until Ziggy looked up. Dillon was staring at him and frowning. Would've made Ziggy uncomfortable. But he didn't see how it was possible to be any more uncomfortable than he already was. "What?"

There was much suspicion. "What's wrong with you?"

Ziggy forced a chuckle. "You could probably ask anyone downstairs and get all kinds of great answers."

Dillon stepped forward, closer, and Ziggy instinctively leaned back, pulling his injured arm behind him. Which very much hurt, though he was sure he hid it pretty well.

"You look off," Dillon decided.

"Okay, ouch," he complained loftily. "There are feelings to consider here, you know. I am a…"

"Ziggy. What's wrong?"

"With the world in general?" he tried.

"With you. Specifically."

And for a brief, absurd second, Ziggy _wanted_ to tell him. Wanted to pour out the truth. And not just about his arm. But everything else, too. Wanted to tell him that he was scared. That he was guilty. That he was the last person in the world who should be trying to save the world. That he was jealous of the others and how they meshed and how they needed each other and how that was okay. That he was so so tired of not needing anybody. But he shook his head. And lied without blinking. "Nothing."

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Dillon looked at the figure on the bed, shoulders hunched, face pale and sweaty, generally miserable and trying hard not to look like it. Brown eyes glassy and desperate and betraying. Dillon sighed quietly. With Ziggy, nothing could ever be simple, could it? It was like it was in the guy's nature to complicate everything a hundred times.

"I'm about ninety percent sure you're lying," he said point blank.

"Ten percent's a pretty big margin for error." Ziggy's eyes were wide and kept looking back and forth between Dillon and the door. Whether dropping a not-so-subtle hint Dillon should leave or planning his own escape it was hard to tell.

Dillon rolled his eyes. "I'm…probably not going to leave until you tell me what's going on with you. And I kind of have other things I wanted to do, so… If you could just quit dancing around and get it over with, that would be great."

"Post-traumatic stress is the party line," twerp answered promptly with that stupid cheeky smile.

"Right. Try again."

The younger boy sighed and ducked his head. Dillon probably wouldn't have heard the next words if he hadn't been a little bit mechanical. "Would you buy post-traumatic trauma?"

"What does…" He stopped. And he could see the pinched look on Ziggy's face, the lines around his eyes and mouth, and they looked like pain. "Did she hurt you?" There was a dangerousness to his voice, partly daring Ziggy to lie, partly promising retribution for a certain lady robot if the answer was yes.

Ziggy's jaw dropped for a second, but he had to pick it up to start talking again. "I'm mostly just tired, Dillon. Seriously. I was going to take a nap. That's all." Those big brown eyes were pleading with him to believe him, to leave it alone. "Long day, you know?"

It _had_ been a long day. So those words sounded like truth. But he couldn't get over the feeling Ziggy was lying to him. And he didn't know why that would be, and it made him mad. "Yeah. You know what, fine." So he was just going to go. If Ziggy didn't want help, he couldn't help him. Nothing Dillon could do about that. He wasn't even sure why he bothered. "Whatever."

He was about to turn toward the door when the computer screen caught his eye. The picture there. And he looked back at Ziggy, looked at how he had his left arm pulled behind him, how he was holding so still. Ziggy didn't usually hold still. _No, _he thought. _Couldn't be. _Dillon walked up to him, held out his left hand and waited.

Ziggy stared. "You don't strike me as the high five type."

"I was going for the handshake."

"Oh. Um. I _never_ shake hands unless I know all the terms of the agreement."

"Humor me."

Dillon could've sworn he heard the guy gulp. "But…isn't it more…customary to do that right-handed?"

_Oh, now this is just stupid. _"What'd you do to your arm, Ziggy?"

"Really? That's the first question he asks?"

"_Zig_."

And the younger boy pressed his lips together tightly, dropping his eyes to stare at the floor for a minute. He looked sort of helpless. Dillon couldn't imagine why this would be so hard. "I don't think it's too bad," he hedged.

It made him worried. "Show me."

And without a word, Ziggy brought his arm around, immediately moving his right hand to support it. Dillon almost took a step back. The wrist was huge, swollen and purple, and the angle was wrong, and it looked _painful_.

Dillon could only stare and think of that skeletal image on the monitor, put it together with the belt on the floor and the _teeth marks_ in it, and when his mouth started to work again, he couldn't stop himself. "You _idiot_," he seethed. Ziggy seemed to expect this. Still, his shoulders hunched a little more, and his head might've dropped a little lower. "What the heck were you _thinking_?"

"Wasn't really, I guess," he said quietly.

"You friggin…You really just weren't going to tell anyone? What _was_ your plan exactly?"

There was an uncomfortable shrug, and Ziggy practically squirmed. Looked like a little kid in trouble. "I wasn't going to bother anybody. I was _trying_ to take care of it."

"You were trying…" Good grief, what did that even mean? It was obvious what it meant. Ziggy thought he could set a wrist that was obviously dislocated, possibly broken, and Dillon could only think of the first thousand lists of reasons why that was the worst idea he could've had. "So it never occurred to you that you have no idea what you're doing? That you could've totally screwed up your hand?"

"I wouldn't say it didn't occur to me…"

"Then, what the heck…?"

"Just don't worry, Dillon. And don't tell the others. I'll have it fixed before Dr. K wants me for training, and it'll be fine. Next time I won't screw up, okay? I swear. I'll get better at this. Just please don't tell them. They already think I'm…" He didn't say _worthless_. And he didn't say _a disappointment_. And he didn't say _a complete waste of time_. He didn't finish it at all. He didn't have to.

Still, Dillon wouldn't have it. "Look, I'm not letting you mess around with a wrist injury. Even if you didn't want to tell any of us," _me,_ "you never thought of, I don't know, going to the _hospital_?"

"I didn't think I'd make it to the hospital," Ziggy said softly, and it was an admission.

That didn't make sense. The hospital wasn't all that far, even without a car. Unless… "You have other injuries I don't know about?"

"_No_," came the immediate answer. "No. It's just..." he paused and worked his jaw, and it seemed for a moment he wouldn't finish. "Corinth isn't always as safe as they meant for it to be."

He remembered men twice Ziggy's size, promising pain, pinning him to a table, saying dark, ugly things. Bright brown eyes going dull and dead as he realized what was coming. Men in prison, who knew Ziggy on sight, knew they wanted to hurt him. Dillon didn't know what had happened to make those guys hate the kid so much. But Ziggy was right. The streets of Corinth weren't exactly a haven for him. And if someone had caught him on the street, hurting like he was, there wouldn't have been much of a struggle. "Idiot," he murmured again. He sighed. Didn't punch the wall. Wanted to. But didn't. "Well, come on." Ziggy finally looked up at him again, eyes questioning. "I have a car."

Ziggy rose, arm held protectively to his chest, immediately wary. "You mean…?"

"I'm taking you to the hospital. You unbelievable moron." He turned and went out the door, expecting Ziggy to follow. For once, the kid did as expected.

"Where are you going?" Summer asked as he stormed through the garage to the Firebird, Ziggy trailing behind.

"Out," he said tersely, not thinking, still wholly angry.

He sat in the driver's seat, reaching across to open the door for a fumbling Ziggy. The younger boy sank, nervously grateful into his seat. "Don't worry," Ziggy called to a frowning Summer. "If he does plan to kill me, I'm sure he'll make it quick and painless. Also sure there'll be no evidence."

"Shut up," Dillon ordered as he started the engine. He rolled down the window. "We'll be back soon," he offered Summer. It was meant to be an apology for being so short. It didn't sound like one. He'd have to fix that when he cooled off.

The engine revved, and Dillon took comfort in the familiar sound and the soothing feeling of the car under him. His car. He loved this car. It was safe and reliable and never surprised him. There was no mystery in it. It never evoked that feeling of trying to remember something and not being able to. It was simple and straightforward and powerful. His watch was the most important thing to him. This car was the most comforting.

Ziggy was quiet in the seat next to him, hands in his lap. Ah, Ziggy. Dillon spent a lot of time wishing the guy would shut up. Heck, he spent a lot of time _telling _the guy to shut up. But when Ziggy was quiet like that, everything felt a little more hopeless.

Dillon rolled his eyes. How did this guy do this to him? He really didn't want to care. He had his own problems. Too many to remember apparently. And this little punk tries to freaking hold him up with a car muffler, and the next thing he knows, he's picked up a passenger, and somehow he's picked up all his passenger's unwanted baggage, too. It was stupid. He _couldn't_ fix everyone's problems. He couldn't fix Ziggy's problems, whatever they were. So why did he keep feeling like he had to try? Sighing, he reached into the back blindly, plucking a yellow sucker from his stash. He pulled off the wrapper and handed it wordlessly to his roommate. If Ziggy wasn't going to talk, Dillon would give himself a reason for why Ziggy wasn't going to talk. Made Dillon feel a little better. Didn't make sense. But made Dillon feel a little better.

Curiously enough, a slow, quiet smile spread across the younger boy's face. He popped the sucker into his mouth. Then he started talking. "Aren't you supposed to give the patient one of these _after _the check-up?" he said around the candy.

"I look like a doctor to you?"

"I would never be a party to profiling."

"Uh-huh."

"But no, you don't, not at all. Then again, Dr. K doesn't look like any doctor I've seen before either. What with the fact he's just a white screen with his own name printed on it. Come to think of it, where does a disembodied computer voice _go_ to get his Ph.D.? Because I would doubt that school's accreditation _immediately_…"

Ziggy kept talking nonsense. Dillon grinned secretly at the road.

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As they pulled up to the front entrance of the hospital, Ziggy felt a knot plant itself firmly in his stomach, and the last thing he wanted in the world was to get out of the car. He told himself he was being stupid, that things weren't like that anymore. But still, he'd spent a childhood knowing that hospitals were bad places to be. Hospitals asked questions, all kinds of questions, and hospitals called social services or police, and hospitals cost money, and hospitals ruined everything. And people in there were clean and sanitized, and they looked at him like he was filthy, and they _noticed _him and made him feel small just with their eyes. Medical attention was not worth it. Never.

He gripped the seat tight with his good hand. Ziggy really, really liked Dillon's car. It was like it was indestructible. The whole world could be blowing up right outside, but it was safe inside Dillon's car because Dillon loved his car more than anything, and it didn't matter if the world was blowing up, Dillon would never let anything hurt his car and, by extension, anyone cowering inside. Ziggy very much did not want to get out of the car, and it was irrational and stupid on all counts, and that didn't change anything.

There was a second of silence and anxiety before Dillon pointed out, "We're here," and Ziggy felt like an idiot.

"Right. Right you are. Thank you for the lift. I'm going to go." He nodded. Hesitated. "If I call you…will you come get me when they're done?"

Dillon just looked at him like he was missing something obvious. "Ziggy. Get out of the car."

Oh. Ouch. "Right. Sorry." He pried his fingers off the seat and pulled the handle. Convinced shaking legs to lever him out of the car and keep holding him up on solid ground. Well, that was fine. He had no intention of going into that building anyway. As soon as Dillon left, he'd go. He still had a few contacts that wouldn't drop him on sight. Well…Benny anyway. And Benny knew people. All Ziggy needed was someone who could set his wrist. Benny could get him that. Benny had always been the master of I-know-a-guy-who-knows-a-guy. Ziggy didn't like that though. Benny had already risked his neck for him once getting him out of the city. But was there any other choice? If he went back to the garage, and his wrist wasn't fixed…

"_Ziggy._" Dillon was standing on the other side of the car, glaring a glare that suggested he'd been trying to get Ziggy's attention for awhile.

"What?"

"Stop spacing out, and let's go."

Ziggy frowned. _Let's_? As in, _Let_ **_us_**? As in _both_ _of_ _them_? "Go where?" They'd just gotten there. Where did Dillon want to go now?

"_Inside_." Dillon just stood there, looking at him like he was soft in the head.

But no. No, because Dillon was the one who wasn't making any sense. "Wha…You're coming, too?"

There was that look again. "Yeah," he drew the word out.

"But why?"

And this time the look was different. Kind of…exasperated and sad and resigned all at the same time. Ziggy didn't know what to do with a look like that. He fought the urge to apologize. Dillon sighed and came around the front of the car. Shut Ziggy's door for him. "That's a dumb question," was the only answer he gave, and it was pretty much the definition of a non-answer. Then Dillon smirked his annoying smirk. People thought Ziggy pretty much cornered the market on annoying, but they didn't know. Dillon could be _really_ annoying when he wanted to be. "Want me to get you a wheelchair?"

Ziggy scowled. Then he brightened. A wheelchair. That might actually have fun potential.

"Absolutely not." Dillon cut off any ideas of wheelies or races or quick getaways he'd been about to have. "That was not a serious suggestion."

The scowl was back. "Killjoy."

Dillon snorted and plucked him closer by the back of his vest, careful not to jostle his arm, and settled his arm across his shoulders. "You got a broken arm. Last thing you need is a broken neck."

"I do not have a broken arm. Probably. And I'm pretty sure a broken neck would be a bad thing regardless of how many other broken bones one may or may not have."

"So we agree. You should never be allowed to pilot a wheelchair. It would only end in disaster." Before Ziggy could take issue with whether or not a wheelchair was a thing to be _piloted_, Dillon was steering them toward the entrance, and that made it not seem to matter much anymore. His heart quickened, and he swallowed. It was a stupid fear. He _knew_ that. He was an adult, and he hadn't done anything wrong. They couldn't call someone to let them know he was there. They couldn't keep him there against his will. They couldn't take him away. They couldn't. And Dillon wouldn't let them, and Dillon wouldn't leave him there.

"So you…you're staying the whole time?" He'd meant it to sound teasing and unnecessary. It came out sort of pleading and desperate.

The arm around his shoulders tightened, but it might've just been because Dillon shrugged. "Depends on whether they have any good magazines."

And Dillon couldn't have possibly meant that to be as reassuring as it sounded.

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A/N: Yeah, this was originally supposed to be a simple little oneshot. I have no self control.


	2. Chapter 2

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Chapter 2

Dillon sat next to Ziggy in the waiting room. They'd spoken to the kind lady at the desk, filled out the paperwork, and now they were just waiting for them to call Ziggy's name. There was a man sitting in a hospital-issue wheelchair with an ice pack on his ankle, a lady holding a bandage to her elbow and leaning against her husband's shoulder, and a couple with a sniffly little kid who'd hurt his arm and seemed to be taking this whole thing a lot better than Ziggy.

Dillon had noticed his roommate's nerviness as they approached the building. Not a big deal. It was a hospital. Generally imposing. So Dillon figured maybe that was normal. But once they'd stepped inside, though, it was like a whole new Ziggy. A quiet, anxious, bordering-on-paranoid Ziggy whose left knee hadn't quit bouncing since they sat down. Ziggy had his arm tucked in protectively, his eyes wide and darting around like he expected at any moment someone would pop out and…and Dillon really had no idea what the kid expected would happen. Something unspeakable if the giant, fear-filled eyes were any indication. Ziggy had hardly looked this scared when What's-Her-Face grabbed him and threw him out of the car.

The Black Ranger leaned toward him slightly, keeping his eyes on the car magazine in his hands. "Zig," he mumbled out the side of his mouth. The younger guy nearly jumped in his seat, and Dillon felt those brown eyes on him. "Simmer down a little."

"What? Yeah. Yeah." Ziggy brought his good hand up to rub the back of his neck, and if the hand was trembling a little bit, Dillon wasn't about to mention it. "No, it's just…it's cold in here. Why do they keep hospitals so cold? Doesn't seem healthy, does it?"

It really wasn't that cold. Then again, Dillon had a thick leather jacket. Ziggy was in a t-shirt and that stupid vest. Come to think of it, hadn't Ziggy had that jacket earlier? "What happened to your coat?" Ziggy had been very proud of that black leather jacket he'd found. He hadn't said it out loud. But it was sort of like the ones the rest of the team wore, and Dillon would've had to be a lot denser than he was not to notice.

"Hm?" The younger boy seemed to be having a hard time paying attention. "Oh. It…I lost it. Earlier. In the laundry."

"Pretty sure it was dry clean only."

"Pretty sure it wasn't _my_ laundry."

"Please don't make me try to decode that."

Ziggy sighed. "She took it," he admitted. His voice sounded small and ashamed, and Dillon hated that robot right then. And even though Ziggy was sitting right there next to him, safe and mostly whole, Dillon worried.

"She got close enough to steal your jacket? You weren't _wearing_ it at the time, right?" She couldn't have been _that_ close.

"Oh…" there was a small, self-depreciating laugh, "I was."

Dillon had fought that girl, just for a few minutes. She was as fast as he was, and she hit like a hammer, and Ziggy had been out there alone, running from her, and she'd been close enough to _rip off his jacket._ Dillon did not like that. That was way, way too close. But somehow not only was this kid still alive, but he'd kept her from getting that morpher, and that could never be anything but miraculous. "Yeah, well," Dillon said, feeling somehow numb, "don't worry. You'll be getting a new jacket pretty soon." A better one with the number four on it. In the meantime, though… Dillon shrugged out of his jacket. Dropped it in Ziggy's lap. When Ziggy looked at him, there was shock all over the place. Dillon rolled his eyes back to his magazine. "Don't make a stupid comment. 'Cause I will punch you in the mouth."

And over the shock, there was confusion. Still, even confused, Ziggy could talk. "Yeah, well. If I'm going to be grievously injured, this would sort of be the opportune moment. There are medical professionals standing by, you know."

"Yeah, for the record? Never give anyone a reasonable argument for hitting you."

"People don't usually need one." It was an immediate and offhand response, and there was humor in it, but there was truth in it, too—enough truth that Dillon couldn't find the humor in it at all. Ziggy didn't seem to notice. He was busy very carefully sliding his arms into the too-long sleeves, and even being so careful, Dillon could tell it hurt. But Ziggy did seem to relax just a little.

Right up until, "Ziggy Grover?" His name was called at the desk. A young blonde woman in pink scrubs and a friendly smile stood there waiting. Ziggy froze, seeming to shrink into the jacket, and if Dillon didn't know better, he would've sworn the guy was about to bolt.

Dillon clamped a hand down on Ziggy's good arm. "That's us," he called, and the woman turned her smile toward them, and Ziggy looked trapped and betrayed. He pulled Ziggy out of the chair, and the younger boy was reluctant, but didn't try to fight. "Come on, man, look at her. She's not exactly terrifying," Dillon murmured under his breath. "What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing," Ziggy said quickly, and his lips thinned, and his face was a bit too pale. "Nothing at all. Um. Wow. She is kinda hot. Want to bet I can get her number?"

"More than anything." Dillon noted the oversized coat and the oversized eyes and the fact that Ziggy currently looked about twelve years old. "But I'd feel bad about taking your money." A little. Maybe.

"Loser takes winner's kitchen duty for a month?"

"Done. Now quit stalling." For crying out loud, Ziggy would not go over there. Dillon pushed him forward with a hand at the base of his neck. All the muscles there were taut with tension, and Dillon had no idea what the problem was. They stopped in front of the blonde. "Hi."

"Hi." That smile of hers just would not falter. She looked at Ziggy. "You must be 'Ziggy.'" Her eyes flicked back to Dillon, one eyebrow raised. "That short for Sigmund?"

"No," Dillon said immediately.

"_Never_." Ziggy was plain horrified. He looked back at Dillon helplessly. _I look like a **Sigmund**?_

Dillon shook his head. _No,_ he reassured silently. _Nuh-uh._

The girl shrugged. "Ziggy it is then. Follow me please."

There were slender fingers suddenly gripping Dillon's sleeve. "Dillon's coming, too," Ziggy blurted. The girl stopped. She looked at Dillon. Dillon looked at Ziggy. Ziggy looked at the floor. "I mean, he…he can, right? If he wants? Because…waiting rooms are so _boring_. And so, really, if there's not like a…a _rule_ or anything…"

"Are you family?" she asked Dillon.

Ziggy popped his head up, legitimately afraid and honest and pleading with Dillon not to leave him. And it didn't matter right then that it was ridiculous. "Yes," he sighed.

"He's my brother." Ziggy always had to put his two cents in. Sometimes he couldn't lie at all. But sometimes he could lie so easy.

"I'm his brother," Dillon nodded, resigned. And the super nova grin Ziggy directed at the floor was sudden and brilliant and probably would've melted straight through Dillon's heart if he hadn't had those conveniently cold metal implants.

The nurse's smile managed to grow somehow. "Thought so. Yeah, come on back if you want."

Dillon trailed along next to Ziggy. Ranger Green's smile had disappeared, and he walked close and stayed a little nervous and a little guilty. "You know, Dillon, I didn't actually mean… If you want to go back…"

"Shut up, Ziggy."

That got a legitimate grin. "Who? Me? Oh, I wasn't going to say anything."

RPMRPMRPMRPMRPMRPMRPM

The machine was bulky and thrummed loudly and looked vaguely evil. The man who operated it was also bulky and thrummed loudly and looked vaguely evil. Ziggy gulped. There was something familiar about the dark-haired man behind the glass, humming tunelessly and checking readings and calibrations and whatever else the massive control board did up in that room.

"It's a really simple procedure," the nurse, Leah according to her nametag, was saying. "We just stick your arm in there, and that machine is going to give us a picture of what's going on inside with your bones. That way the doctors will know just how to fix you up." Wow. She really thought he was a child. "Don't worry. I promise it won't hurt a bit."

"Sounds terrific," he said, and his voice squeaked a bit. He cleared his throat. "Don't suppose they have that anywhere in writing." His fear wasn't of the machine. He hated this _place_. He hated that _man_. He wanted to be out of there.

She chuckled softly and patted his hand. "You're being very brave." Wow, she _really_ thought he was a child. Or maybe she just spoke that way to everyone. Could've gone either way. She looked at Dillon. "You'll have to wait out here for this part."

Dillon shrugged and sent Ziggy a look that might've been a little sympathetic around the edges. "Show 'em what you're made of, little brother." He smirked.

_Wow. Really?_ Because that was almost a joke.

The nurse giggled like she found him extremely clever. Ziggy made an impolite face. But it did maybe make him feel better that Dillon called him little brother. Like it was truth. Like they were family. Even if that was stupid and didn't make sense.

He took his morpher out of his pocket. Heaven only knew what a device like that might do to interfere with the test. But he stopped. Looked at it. Really, the innocent-looking gadget was nothing but trouble. A burden that was never supposed to be his, that he was sure he didn't want. So the sudden reluctance he felt to put it down didn't make a lot of sense. Felt wrong to let it go. Felt dangerous. Felt…weak.

"Hey. I got it."

Ziggy looked up. Dillon was waiting, hand out. He'd hold onto it. That…that felt okay. He set the morpher in the black ranger's hand. Dillon tipped it toward his head in salute. Neither of them said anything else.

Leah led Ziggy into the cold white room, and Ziggy kept his head down, away from the operator behind the glass. It was defensive and it was habit. She made a few adjustments to the machine. It really was a beast of a thing. The technology he didn't understand, but it had replaced x-ray machines fairly recently. Supposed to yield clearer results and increase hospital proficiency, etcetera, etcetera. Ziggy stubbornly translated that to mean it was cheaper to operate.

"You'll need to take that leather jacket off, hon." She called him hon. She could only have been, what? Four years older than him? Maybe?

"This thing can see through human skin, but not through cow skin?" He didn't mean it snarky. It was a legitimate question. Besides, this was Dillon's coat, and he wasn't about to let something happen to it. And okay, maybe he did feel safer with it on. But that was not the least bit sentimental because the leather was tough and thick and would probably deflect needles, and that was the only reason he was reluctant to take it off.

She opened her mouth like she was going to make a counter argument, but then seemed to think better of it and settled on a very cheery "Exactly."

Ziggy thought about it. It didn't seem like he actually had a choice, but he thought about it anyway. He could see Dillon in the hallway, standing by the windows.

"Do you want me to hold onto it, or do you want me to take it to your brother?"

His brother. Yeah, he liked that way too much.

"Just…hold onto it. This won't take long, right?" He didn't think he trusted her with Dillon's jacket. But if he gave it back to Dillon, Dillon might not give it back when he was done, and he wanted it back for as long as he could have it. Selfish? Yes. But he wasn't even sure why Dillon let him use it in the first place. There was no way Dillon could've known it was exactly what he needed.

Leah winked. "You'll be done before you know it."

He slid his arms out of the sleeves, and felt the temperature drop immediately. Leah draped it over her arm and positioned him where he was supposed to be, adjusting the machine so that it could capture the image of his arm in 3D.

"All right. You just stay right there like that, and don't move, okay? I'm going to go up into the control room with Vick up there where you can see me. It'll just take a minute or two."

"Okay."

Her smile was soft and full of understanding, and it was nice, but it was also her profession. She disappeared through a side door and then reappeared slightly above him in the overlooking room, next to the man Ziggy was avoiding.

Ziggy tried to stay still, but it was hard. The machine moved and hummed and clicked. Everything felt huge, and he felt surrounded, trapped, and his arm still hurt, and he was cold, and there was still a part of him that was a hundred percent sure something terrible would happen. And he really tried not to, but he turned his head to look for Dillon. And he froze.

"Ah. Don't move, sweetheart. Stay very still for me."

"Where's Dillon?" he asked numbly, slow, dreadful panic rising in his chest. His breath quickened. There was no one by the window. What if Dillon left? No, Dillon wouldn't leave. Dillon didn't leave him in the Wasteland or in prison. Dillon _wouldn't_ leave him here. But what if they'd made him leave? What if they took him away somewhere? What if they figured out he had those implants, and they wanted to take them out? Where was _Dillon_?

"He's right outside, Ziggy. Now…"

"No he's not." _He's **not**. _It was a lie. Why would they have to lie to him? Ziggy pulled his arm back from the machine, moved toward the door, terrified, determined. He reached the door, pulled the handle, threw it open. He wouldn't let Dillon disappear. The team needed Dillon. The world needed Dillon. Ziggy needed…

"Whoa! Hey!" The voice was the only warning Ziggy got before he smacked straight into black t-shirt. Pain shot up from his wrist into his chest, and he didn't care. Arms immediately wrapped around him, keeping him upright. He was breathing hard, each breath too short even as the blind fear began to be strangled out by reality. "Zig. Take it easy." The voice was frustration and concern and very much Dillon. "Calm down." That was an order. And it was Dillon, and it felt like a hug, and Ziggy hugged back fiercely because it was Dillon, and he was safe, and he was standing right there, and he was _safe_. "Hey, what happened? What's wrong?" There was danger in the voice, and that danger was all about fixing whatever was wrong, and there was so much safety in it.

Ziggy shook his head against Dillon's chest. "I thought…" He froze. What had he thought? He'd thought…oh. But…_oh._ It all seemed childish and foolish now. At best. One hundred percent pure, bona fide, break-out-the-straightjacket crazy at worst.

"You thought _what_?" Dillon demanded.

"Uh—ahh…" Ziggy pushed himself backwards, out of reach. Felt his face get hot. _Oh, that was **so** dumb, Ziggy._ There was a line of chairs along the wall. Where Dillon must've been sitting before the door slammed open. _So dumb. _"I thought…that…you…" And there had to be something he could say that was not truth that would explain away what had just happened without making him seem like an absolute fool. Even if he _was_ an absolute fool. _Especially_ if he was an absolute fool. "I thought that I forgot to tell you that…there's a killer cafeteria here. Serves the best…Jell-O in _at_ _least_ a…four-block radius. So. I know how you like that. Can't believe I forgot to tell you. My apologies. Sincerest apologies. I'll buy you a Jell-O on the way out. Strawberry. Their strawberry's a big deal here, trust me. But…I should probably go, though. Get my arm scanned and whatnot. Yeah, sorry I ran into you."

He spun around without waiting for a response, definitely without looking to see how Dillon was looking at him, and nearly took out Nurse Leah as she came up behind him. "Are you okay?" she asked. "You looked like you were having a panic attack. Do you need to sit down for a minute?"

"Nope. Not hardly. Just had a message to deliver. It's delivered. Let's get this done, shall we?"

"Would you feel better if your brother was in there where you could see him?"

Yes. Oh, yes. "Of course not. Why would that matter?"

A large hand clapped his shoulder, and Dillon was there backing him up. "He's fine. We had a quick Jell-O meeting." She looked confused. Dillon didn't waver. "Our family takes Jell-O _very_ seriously." He certainly sounded serious.

Ziggy could only nod and agree. "What he said."

She seemed uncertain and a little like she wanted to give him a hug. Which he wouldn't have objected to at all. "Okay," she said slowly. She had Dillon's jacket on her arm, and she handed it back to its owner without a word. Ziggy almost snapped his fingers. _Drat._ Dillon tossed it at the row of chairs like it wasn't anything important. "Come on, then," Leah said. She started to lead the way to the door but stopped and faced them again. "You two don't have any more meetings that can't wait, do you?"

"Of course not."

"Why would we?"

She looked from one to the other. "Okay. Good."

Ziggy looked at Dillon. Gave a cool shrug. And followed the nurse. Leah set him up with the machine again. Dillon stayed by the window the whole time. Ziggy felt silly and embarrassed and like the child Leah seemed to think he was, and at the same time it was kind of nice. Dillon didn't have to come. Didn't have to stay. Didn't have to care. And even if it maybe only mattered to Dillon because now Ziggy might have to have his back in battle, it was still nice.

"Okay, we're all done," Leah's voice filtered through the speakers from the connecting room. "You did great."

"That's wonderful. So…?"

"It'll be a few minutes to get these images to Dr. Morgan and have him figure out just what to do with you."

"I don't have to wait in here, do I?"

There was even a smile in her voice. "No, sweetheart. You can wait outside with your brother." He thought about pointing out that it wasn't like he _needed_ to wait outside with Dillon. But it seemed a waste of time to belabor the point, and besides, he was already halfway out the door, away from big, creepy machines and their big, creepy operators.

Dillon was waiting for him. "So. Did it hurt?" he asked, and mostly it just sounded like conversation, but it also partly sounded like concern.

Ziggy thought about it. His answer was a very precise shrug and a very informative, "Meh." Sure it hurt. But it wasn't the machine. It just generally hurt because that's how injuries were. Dillon seemed to accept that and went and sat down in the row of chairs, leaving the one on the end open, presumably for Ziggy. He didn't need an invite. Sinking down, he offered, "She said it would be a few minutes."

"I heard." Without comment, Dillon pulled the jacket off the back of the next chair and handed it to him. Ziggy smiled and squirmed his way into it. He was tired, and it was warm, and there was nothing he wanted more right then than to get back to the garage, climb up to his room and collapse. He didn't think Dillon would let that happen without them popping his wrist back in or whatever. He pulled his legs up and leaned forward on his knees, resting his head on his good arm. He shouldn't be so tired. There was danger here. He needed to be awake.

"How much longer you think it'll be?" he asked. His voice sounded sleepy even to him. He shook his head in a halfhearted attempt to keep it clear.

"I don't have a lot of experience to pull from," Dillon pointed out.

"Oh. Yeah." No memories to speak of would do that to a guy. Still, "Best guess?"

"Half an hour?"

Ziggy sighed. Half an hour too long. He tried to calculate the odds of him not falling asleep. Odds didn't seem good. Tried to calculate the odds of him not falling off his chair and causing no small amount of physical trauma to his person. Again, odds were not encouraging. Then again, he'd never been an ace at the whole probabilities and statistics thing so he probably wasn't even calculating correctly anyway.

"Don't you dare fall asleep," Dillon warned.

He popped his head back up. Good ol' Dillon. "Wasn't gonna."

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Dillon watched the younger guy next to him stubbornly nodding and blinking and not sleeping. He made a mental note to have the doctor check the kid for a concussion. He remembered Tenaya grabbing Ziggy, dragging him from the car, tossing him around like he was nothing, and Ziggy hadn't moved from the ground for what felt like a very, very long time. He frowned deeply.

Ziggy was sort of a mystery. Had been since they'd met. He gave this pretense of being this happy-simple, open and honest, what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of guy. But it just didn't add up. Ziggy would talk and talk and talk, but he would never really _say_ anything. Dillon had seen the kid make people's heads spin with ridiculous tales of his past that Dillon had no doubt were nothing close to the truth. But Ziggy was just so _good_ at it. The act. And it showed, because every single time Dillon tried to call him on it, Ziggy looked shocked and caught and vaguely afraid. Like no one had ever tried to call him on it before.

And then there was what happened earlier. Ziggy had been wild-eyed and frantic when he crashed through that door, shaking and clinging, and the fear was unspoken but deep and real, but then somehow the relief had been almost immediate. All Dillon could do was stand there without a clue, and before he could do anything to fix anything, Ziggy was putting in distance, babbling barely coherent nonsense, looking everywhere but in his eyes, and insisting everything was fine. It wasn't, though. Of course not. Dillon was getting tired of the lies, of having to guess. It was pointless. And maybe it was equally pointless for Dillon to feel like he had to help this kid, protect him. Ziggy was a con artist. That much was obvious. Maybe he was just stringing Dillon along, and the real Ziggy was the goofy, cocky, smooth-talking, self-seeking coward; and the wide-eyed, innocent, worried, lonely kid was the act. Dillon looked at the boy sitting next to him, swallowed up in his coat, chin on knees, wary eyes scanning up and down the hallway beneath droopy lids. And he tried to believe that. He really tried.

Dillon sighed and settled further into his seat. The hard plastic chair was small and not anywhere close to comfortable. He didn't know how Ziggy managed to fold himself up like he had and get that close to sleep. "So what's your deal with this place?" he asked point blank. Found he really wanted an answer.

"Hm?" Ziggy's head shot up, and there was a moment of guilt at some unknown failing, and then he registered the question. "Oh, I've never made a deal with this place." His head sank slowly down to rest on his arm again. "Not ever."

It was impossible to tell if the misunderstanding had been on purpose, or a moment of accidental, exhaustion-induced truth. "No, I mean, you obviously hate it here. A lot. Guess I just wondered why."

"'s not safe," he answered simply. The voice was young and hardly sounded like Ziggy at all.

"How?"

"They know when you're no good," he said sadly, head lolling a bit on his arm. "Or when you don't belong to anybody. They call people to take you away, and they do, and no one ever finds you again." Brown eyes closed. "I don't want them to take me," he whispered. Like a secret. "An' I don't want them to take you either."

Dillon couldn't move for a second. If this Ziggy was the act, then Con Artist Ziggy was a master. But if this Ziggy was the real Ziggy, then it explained why Dillon had the sudden intense urge to find whoever or whatever had scared the kid so bad at whatever point, and tear them apart. Dillon maybe didn't know much, but he knew what a hospital was. A hospital was a place where sick people and hurt people went to get better. It wasn't a place full of enemies. It wasn't a place where people were taken away. So what had Ziggy been through that made going to the hospital a worse fate than messing up his arm? Nobody, no matter how good an imagination, could have believed it had been something good. Dillon didn't even have a good imagination. "Hey. Zig," he said quietly, unable to stand being alone with his thoughts. "Wake up. You're falling asleep." He jostled the boy's head, and Ziggy came awake with a start. Winced.

"Ow. What?" He sounded more alert.

Dillon hid behind a smirk. "Think you were starting to drool."

Ziggy wiped his mouth instinctively before scowling. "I don't drool."

"Better not. That's my jacket."

A shrug. "Should've made me put down a security deposit. I can't be held responsible for your lapses in judgment."

Dillon snorted. "Lately seems like you've pretty much been responsible for all my lapses in judgment."

There was a lightning fast flash of hurt, and it was way more likely it was because of his injured wrist and not because he misunderstood what Dillon was carefully not saying. Still, Ziggy barely paused, and his lofty, goofy voice didn't waver. "I've never been _that_ responsible."

Carefully not allowing his voice to soften, Dillon huffed, "If it weren't for you, I'd never have gotten caught up with all this…'Power Ranger' stuff in the first place."

"That was Summer. Not me. You were definitely her idea."

"Yeah. And if it weren't for you, she would never have met me. I would've never met her. And I'd be happily" _hopelessly_ "roaming the Wastelands, just me, with no team" _family? _"to worry about" _to watch my back_ "all the time." And Ziggy might like to pretend he was stupid, but Dillon knew the kid was far from it. He looked at his would-be carjacker turned unwanted passenger turned nervous cellmate turned welcomed roommate turned reluctant ranger. And let his eyes say what he meant.

No, Ziggy wasn't stupid. He got it. He smiled a little, and it was shy and not anything like his conman smile. "Ah. Well. I suppose you're welcome, then." And his voice was still smug, heck that part was probably habit, but the smile said thank yous of its own.

A small flicker of warning lit up in the back of Dillon's head, not for the first time. Because there were brown eyes full of gratitude, and there was humor and general helplessness and untapped strength and loyalty, and it was Ziggy, and it felt like friendship. And Dillon had been sure he didn't want that. He didn't need friends, didn't need anybody. So even if the very quietest part of his mind could whisper words like _family_ and _friendship_, the loudest, most stubborn part rationalized that all this was _temporary_ and he was in no way stupid enough to get _attached._

Approaching footsteps. And then there was the nurse. Dillon mentally thanked her for the convenient interruption of his thoughts.

"Ziggy. Hey, hon, you can come on back. Dr. Morgan's going to fix you right up, okay?"

"Champion," Ziggy mumbled, and his eyes were wide again.

"Dillon, you're coming, too?" She smiled sweetly, and there was something in it. Dillon had to find a polite but disinterested smile. She was pretty. But if ever he had to choose a pretty blonde to further complicate his life, it wouldn't be this one.

"Mm-hm. Yeah. Come on, Zig. Almost done."

He slapped the kid's knee and stood, waiting for Ziggy to unfold himself and get out of the chair. It took a minute, and the movements were careful, and eyes closed for a second, and that _might_ have been dizziness, and Dillon decided that he was absolutely going to have this Dr. Morgan check the guy for a concussion. It occurred to him that even a few days ago he would've assumed that if Ziggy was hurting, he'd have broadcasted it quite loudly all on his own.

"You know," Ziggy said as he walked by Dillon's side, his voice low and conspiratorial. "I heard about this one guy on the south side, came in to get a broken arm set once, and they wound up taking a kidney. Or maybe it was his liver. And part of a lung. They claimed it was a mix-up in paperwork, but it was found out later that the hospital dealt in the black market. Not for organs, no, they didn't want him for those. But for the _classic_ _car_ that went mysteriously missing from the parking lot that night…"

"Ziggy. I will kill you."

"What?" He winked almost charmingly at a grinning Leah. "I thought it was a good story."

There wasn't a lot of heat in the glare Dillon directed the kid's way, and Dillon was certain he managed to completely hide his smirk. Hm. Seemed whenever Ziggy was broadcasting loudly it was mostly to cover something. Fear. Pain. Whatever he was trying to hide.

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	3. Chapter 3

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* * *

Chapter 3

"Hey. You beat your high score," Summer praised, grinning as she came into the training room where Scott was wiping his brow with a towel. He hadn't said it, but she had a feeling the Team Leader had been steadily trying to lessen the gap between his highest score and their new Ranger Black's. The fact that their new Ranger had mechanical implants that gave him an edge apparently didn't register with the wholly human Scott Truman.

Ranger Red stood straighter, walking over to hit a button on the control panel to end the program. "Yeah." He leaned on the panel. "You know, though, if anybody should be in here, it should _probably_ be the new kid."

She raised an eyebrow. "We're calling him 'the new kid' now? Because, I don't think I liked seventh grade enough to make a return visit."

His smirk was teasing. "You mean you weren't the middle school queen? I would've pegged you for queen."

"It was title-only," she waved it away, refusing to think back to a time when being "queen" was all and only what was important to her. "Besides, I like to think I've mostly outgrown the tiara. And how about you? Dumb jock?"

"The dumbest."

"Aha. Well, I like to think you've outgrown that, too."

"Oh." With fake surprise. "So you mean…we're like grownups now?"

"The world seems to insist." It was said as a joke, but mostly because it wasn't one. "Scott," she sighed. "You know you're not really angry at him."

He met her eyes. She liked it when he did that. Usually meant he'd talk straight with her. "No, I'm not angry at him," he admitted easily enough, crossing his arms and leaning back. "I'm angry _about_ him, though. He shouldn't be here. It's not his fault, I get that, but that's the bottom line that I have to deal with. Kid should not be here. Him meeting up with Dillon? A coincidence. Him coming here with us? A mistake. Him becoming a Ranger? An accident. This," he gestured to their surroundings, "what we're doing here, is way too important to put in the hands of a guy we're not even sure we can trust, who's only here by chance, whose entire time here has been one disaster after another."

"So maybe he's not what we expected. Or required. Or…wanted. That doesn't mean he won't turn out to be what we need."

He raised an eyebrow. "That's a little optimistic. Even for you."

She conceded that point with a tilt of her head. "Still. What would you have us do?"

"There's nothing we _can_ do. We're stuck. I know that. Nothing I can do to change it now."

"Yes. Ziggy's the Green Ranger. There's nothing you can do about that. But you're the team lead. There's a lot you can do to affect the way he fits into this group. If you make him think he's not a part of it, he won't be a part of it."

He raised both eyebrows. "So you're saying you want me to buddy up to him? Because hand-holding isn't really my forte. And like you said, this isn't seventh grade. This isn't about friendship or…popularity, whatever. This is about the survival of what's left of humanity. And you've met Ziggy, right?"

"This isn't about friendship? Scott. You, Flynn, and I have been a team for a year. We've done more than fight beside each other. We live together, work together, play together. Do you think we'd have been nearly as effective as a unit if we didn't care about each other? If at the end of the day we didn't know there'd be two other people who understand us better than anyone else? The three of us are good together out there because we're good together in here. So if you think our success has nothing to do with friendship…"

"Yeah. I hear you."

"You're a leader. You teach; you train. You lead. You get the best out of your people. How is this different?"

"It's…not," Scott sighed. "Look it's not that I don't like the guy. I didn't have a problem with him staying here. But he's not prepared to do what we do. He'll be walking into battle with us. Our gear protects us from a lot, but not from everything. I don't know if I can fight Venjix and watch out for him at the same time. Feels like something bad's gonna happen. You and Flynn and Dillon I can trust to keep yourselves safe. Ziggy's different. I can do my best to have his back, but I can't promise my best will always be good enough." He looked away at things she couldn't see. "Sometimes it's not."

She remembered the person she'd met a year ago. Brave and strong. And mourning. He was still mourning. But he stood straighter now at least, and there was the odd occasion when he smiled. "That's a little cynical," she said gently. "Even for you." He crossed his arms, directing a tiny, soft grin at the floor. "Part of being a team?" she said. "We all have each other's backs. That's how that works."

"He's not ready."

"Neither were we. So what if nobody ever thought Ziggy would be a Ranger. Nobody would've thought I'd be one either until you guys came along. Nobody believed you'd be one until us. Nobody believed Flynn would be one until us. Nobody believed Dillon would be one. Until us."

"Huh." He smirked. "We really are a bunch of rejects, aren't we?"

"Throw-backs. Outcasts," Summer nodded, grinning. "Mmhm. That's us. Misfits of the surviving human population, thrown together to save what's left of the world. It's sort of epic if you think about it."

"I really hate thinking about it."

"I don't think any of us ever really belonged out there. But we've all had that in common. That's probably why we fit so well in here. Apparently you have to have a little freak in you to qualify as a Ranger."

"Awesome. So what am I worried about? Ziggy should fit right in."

"Hey. You two want to go out for a bit?" They both looked over as Flynn's lilting voice called from the doorway. "Ice cream feels appropriate."

Scott pushed off the control panel. "Sounds good to me. Where're Ziggy and Dillon? They coming?"

Flynn shrugged. "I didn't see them. I'll check upstairs."

"They left," Summer cut in. "Kind of in a hurry, actually. Didn't say where they were going. Or when they'd be back. Neither of them seemed particularly cheery."

"I think I may know why," Dr. K surprised them. Summer did wonder how often their employer listened in on what they were saying.

"Why's that?" Scott asked.

"When the five of you returned, I noticed a fluctuation of the voice pattern of our newly named Ranger Operator Series Green that seemed more extensive than what may be considered normal even under admittedly stressful conditions. When morphed, the Ranger Suits track data of the Operators' physical condition. When I went back and reevaluated this data, I was able to locate an increased output of adrenaline at the point of morphing in Series Green. This led to further study in which I found physical trauma to one of the left proximal metacarpals, most probably the lunate, though that is partially conjecture as the suits' physical monitors are not as yet that precise."

Flynn looked from Summer to Scott. "So what you're saying is…Ziggy's hurt?"

"Yes, Ranger Operator Series Blue. That is, in the simplest terms, what I am trying to convey." If Summer didn't know any better, she'd have thought the dry, mechanical voice sounded a little bit like guilt.

"Hurt where was it now?" Flynn asked.

"The left proximal…"

"Layman's terms, Doctor."

"His wrist, Ranger Blue. I believe he has dislocated his wrist."

"And he was hurt when he morphed the first time? He did all that with a bum wrist?" Flynn made a face. "That's a bad day by anyone's terms."

"He didn't say anything," Scott argued. "If he was hurt, he would've said something."

"Why would he tell us?" Summer asked. She felt two sets of eyes on her. Two sets of eyes and probably a camera feeding to their illusive instructor's set of eyes. "Why should he trust us any more than we've trusted him?" She sighed. "No wonder Dillon was upset."

"You believe Series Black has escorted Series Green to seek medical attention?"

"That's my bet," Summer nodded.

There was a pause, and if Summer didn't know any better, she would've categorized the next sound as a huff, and then it was logic and method and _still_ sounded like guilt. "It is proper procedure to immediately report any physical injury or illness to one's superiors in order that the correct measures be taken to insure the health and well-being of the Operator. Why he would fail to register his complaint with _me_…"

"Dr. K," Scott interrupted what sounded a lot like rambling. "This is probably our fault."

There was a pause. "I fail to see how."

"We've all failed to see some things lately. That's kind of my point." Scott put his hands in his pockets, and for a moment, no one said anything, not even Dr. K, who normally took issue with anyone insinuating he may have been wrong. But all of them were guilty of treating Ziggy like an outsider. A distraction. A nuisance. A compromise they'd only been willing to make to get Dillon.

"You know the first time I met him in prison, he hugged me and then lifted my wallet," Flynn said, and his tone bordered somewhere between "for the record" and fond reminiscing.

Summer grinned. "He gave it back, didn't he?"

"Aye. That he did. Said it was an accident. Then offered to teach me how." Ranger Blue smirked. "Should we call Dillon then? Meet them at the doctor's office or wherever it is they went?"

"Nah. I say we wait for them," Scott decided. "They should be back soon. When they are, though, we should probably let them know that when one of us is hurt, we all want to know."

* * *

Dr. Morgan looked like Abraham Lincoln. In fact, if Ziggy didn't know better, he'd say Dr. Morgan _was_ Abraham Lincoln. The man was tall, thin, dark-haired with the chiseled face and the beard and the stately demeanor, and no matter how hard Ziggy tried, he couldn't stop picturing him with the sweet black top hat. And to make it worse, the man was a slow talker. Ziggy had never thought about it before, but now confronted with it, he found himself very much believing that Abraham Lincoln would've been a slow talker.

"Ah, so you're the young man with the wrist trouble." Ziggy felt confident he could've spoken that same sentence in about one third the time it took this doctor to get the words out. Still, the man seemed very nice, and concentrating on the words as they came out did make Ziggy accidentally relax a little. "Can you hop up on here for me, son?" He patted the paper-covered table on the edge of the small room.

Ziggy sent Dillon a look. Ranger Black didn't seem to notice anything presidential about the man, but then again, maybe Dillon didn't remember what Abraham Lincoln looked like. Or maybe Ziggy was just crazy. "Hm? Ah, yes sir, Mr. Pr…Um…aha. Doctor." Ziggy jerked his head in a nod and climbed up onto the table, trying not to rustle the paper too much.

"All right. Now, let's take off this jacket, shall we?" That seemed reasonable and not unexpected. Ziggy slid the jacket off his shoulders and brought his arms out. Offered his wrist for inspection. The doctor whistled. "Well, now. Looks a whole lot different on the outside than on the inside, doesn't it."

"That seems like it would be considered a good thing." Had to be, right? When the outside started looking like the inside, that would have to lead to serious problems.

He chuckled. "Sure does. Now, you've dislocated what they call the lunate bone here, and it looks bad, and it sounds bad, and I'm sure it _feels_ bad as all get out, but as far as wrist dislocations go, that's about the most common."

"Does 'most common' mean 'easiest to fix'?" That actually came from Dillon, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, and he'd looked imposing and disinterested right up until then.

The doctor gave him a soft look like he understood something and answered, "Pretty easy." He turned to Ziggy. "Now they didn't list any pain medications in your chart here, so I'd like to know what you've taken."

"Nothing," he said quickly, and at first it was because that was always the response when someone accused him of taking something. Then it sunk in that the doctor wanted to know what _medications_ he was on, and it was nice that his original answer still applied. Not that he _wouldn't_ have popped some pain pills at the garage, but he hadn't really had the chance.

The man's eyes widened fractionally, but only for a moment, and Ziggy heard Dillon shift on the wall. "Well, now. Tough guy." Sounded sympathetic and only the slightest bit unhappy. "Well, I suppose that does make my job a bit easier. Don't have to worry about anything mixing the wrong way." He went to a drawer and pulled out a syringe, and there was a vial of liquid that had been set out on the counter, and it didn't matter at all then that it was Honest Abe trying to pump him full of something, there was _no_ _way_ that stuff was getting near him.

"I don't need that," he said quickly, and he was somehow standing on the exam table's step, and there was a lot of _run away_ going through his head. "Don't want it. Just do whatever you were going to." His breath was getting faster, and his eyes were on that needle. "Don't stick that in me."

"Now, hold on…"

"No." Ziggy had no way of knowing what was in that syringe, and letting someone inject him with an unknown and unverifiable substance in a _hospital_ went against all he knew. Would've been plain stupid.

"The setting will hurt worse than the needle, son. This will take that pain away."

"I don't want that." Ziggy wasn't afraid of some puny needle. Drugs were a lot scarier than needles. Every time.

"Zig." Dillon had stood up away from the wall and at some point gotten close, and he was frowning so that his forehead creased. "Just get the shot."

"_No_. I don't need it."

"Ziggy, take the shot now or I swear I will knock you out myself."

"Dillon, _don't_." Dillon pulled up short. And with Ziggy standing on the step, he was actually a couple inches taller than the other boy, looking down at him, and it was weird. "No shots. No."

Dillon looked fed up. Angry even. "You're in _pain_, you moron!"

"I don't even know what that stuff is!" Ziggy wasn't the best fighter. He knew that. But he could fight a solid person coming at him a whole lot better than he could fight something flowing through his bloodstream. Common sense. And if that Lincoln impersonator gave him something that knocked him out, made him helpless, then there was nothing he could do if someone tried to take him, and nothing he could do to help Dillon, and it _made_ _sense_. Even if maybe it didn't.

"Ziggy, what do you _think_ I'm gonna let happen?" Dillon nearly shouted, and it was frustration, and it was a real question, and it made Ziggy stop. Dillon standing right there, and he had his morpher, and he had Ziggy's morpher, and he was Dillon, and Ziggy had never seen Dillon lose, not once.

"Nothing," he said quietly with the realization, and meant it. Dillon wouldn't let anything happen to him. Never had. He sat down heavily on the table, too spent to even be too embarrassed.

He was vaguely aware of former President Lincoln approaching him, the movements slow and cautious. "This is only a local anesthetic," came the low, rumbled words. There was coldness on his arm, and then a sharp prick, and Ziggy kept his eyes on Dillon, and _why_ were his eyelids so heavy?

"Nothing," Ziggy repeated.

Dillon nodded. "Should've been a no brainer." The words could've been harsh, but they weren't.

The doctor was saying something, and Ziggy didn't know what. He should've paid attention. Really he should've. There was a stranger in the room, and he was in a hospital, and he should be alert and wary and surviving. He shouldn't depend on Dillon to keep both of them safe. It wasn't fair. It was dangerous even, and it went against instinct. _Do not trust._ Ever. And maybe Ziggy just wasn't thinking straight. Distinct possibility. His headache still hadn't let up, and he felt heavy and a little sick. But Dillon said he wouldn't let anything happen. And Ziggy believed him.

His eyes were closed. Didn't remember doing that, and it felt like the room was spinning, but it didn't scare him. He thought maybe he was falling, and he thought maybe that was bad, and there was a shout that sounded like anger-soaked fear, and it didn't come from him. And somebody caught him, and he wasn't falling, and that seemed good, and he couldn't remember any reasons why he shouldn't be asleep.

* * *

Dillon watched Ziggy as the younger boy calmed down. Watched him as the doctor injected the anesthetic. Dr. Morgan was explaining about the procedure, about how it would be very quick once the drug kicked in, and Ziggy would be sore for awhile but not nearly as sore as he had been up to that point with his wrist all out of place. Dillon was still watching Ziggy when his eyes glazed over and slipped shut, and thank goodness he was still watching Ziggy when he pitched forward and nearly smacked into the ground. Compared to snagging a cup of water out of the air to prove a point to a bunch of arrogant military snobs, catching a suddenly boneless heap of Ranger Green on a slow arc toward the floor was almost simple. Except for the immediate anxiety and adrenaline-pumping fear.

"Hey!" He wasn't even sure who he was shouting hey to, but it was the kind of hey meant to make the world stop until he could figure out what the heck was going on. Ziggy was goo, not so much as a groan or a flutter of eyelids as Dillon pulled him up away from the floor.

"Oh, no. Get him back up on the table." Beneath the command, there was confusion in the doctor's voice, and that made Dillon a lot more nervous.

"What the heck just happened? You said it was just a local anesthetic. Pretty sure they're not supposed to do that!"

"And you'd be right. On the table. Please. Let me examine him." Urgent and sincere.

Dillon shifted Ziggy's weight, maneuvered him up onto the table, and good grief, that kid didn't weigh _anything_, and that would've had to have been true before Ziggy passed out, but somehow it still doubled Dillon's worry. He bunched the jacket under Ziggy's head and watched, helpless, while the doctor flitted about, checking the green ranger's pulse and shining lights in his eyes and saying "Hm."

"What's the matter with him?" Dillon demanded. Patience wasn't possible. There wasn't enough color in Ziggy's face, not at all, and he just lay there, not moving, and Dillon could only look at his chest because it at least kept rising and falling in rhythm, and that _had_ to be enough to keep the nightmares at bay.

The doctor didn't answer. What if the doctor didn't know?

"How'd he hurt his wrist?" the man asked after what felt like an eternity.

"He…" Dillon wasn't even sure precisely when it happened. Why hadn't he thought to ask? "He got in a fight." Fortunately no one seemed to know him or Ziggy as Rangers yet, and Dillon would keep it that way as long as he could.

The man raised an eyebrow but stayed on topic. "Any other injuries?"

"I…I don't know." It was agonizing a little to admit that. Sure he'd asked Ziggy, and sure Ziggy had said no, but that was _before_ Dillon realized that with Ziggy he had to _make_ _sure_ because Ziggy hid things that hurt. "He was down for awhile. Could've hit his head. I was gonna have you check for a concussion." Why hadn't he done that before? _Why_?

"Mm." Long fingers were probing through the mess of brown hair. "Mmhm. I'll say. He's got a bit of a knot here, back of his head. This happened today, didn't it?"

"Yeah. Little while before I brought him in. He didn't…say anything about it." It made Dillon so mad. Anger was a lot easier than guilt, and still there was a voice behind his ears with _You should've made sure,_ and the ever-more-helpful _You never should've let this happen in the first place._ Neither of which was fair and neither of which was wrong.

"His vitals are all fine, normal. I'd say he does have a concussion, but it's a very mild one, and I think it was that on top of all the excitement just wore him out. He's unconscious, but you know, he's all right. I'll give him five minutes to wake up. In the meantime, I want to go ahead and set this wrist. Better that he's asleep for that, I think. He's a bit of a jumpy one, isn't he? Ziggy, wasn't it?"

"Yeah. Ziggy."

Somehow the guilt must've seeped into his voice. "Wasn't your fault, son," Dr. Morgan said lowly. "Wasn't anybody's fault." That was too generic to be comforting besides the fact that it wasn't true. It was somebody's fault. Dillon was going to kill that robot girl. First chance. "Did he win?" The doctor's voice cut through his revenge plotting.

"What?"

"This fight of your brother's. Did he win?"

Dillon looked at Ziggy. Head pillowed on Dillon's jacket, eyes closed. Pale and still and broken. Looked very young and very fragile and very human. And he thought of the kid's opponent. Tenaya 7. Calculating and lethal, cold and close as could be to indestructible. But there was a green morpher in Dillon's pocket, the only one in existence. "Yeah," he said, and he wasn't entitled to the sudden surge of pride he felt at all. "Yeah, he did."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Ziggy's head was stuffed. Not with cotton or feathers or anything soft like that. No, he figured his head was stuffed with whatever taxidermists used to stuff deer and elk and bears and that sort of thing. It was entirely possible he was nothing _but_ a head, and it was entirely possible he'd been mounted in somebody's study. And yes, maybe it wasn't possible at all, but he didn't see how he should be able to know that what with his head being stuffed like it was.

He groaned and found that he must not be only a head because he could wiggle toes and fingers—at least one set of fingers—and when he did, there was a rattling sound, and he was lying on paper, and there was something squeezing his arm, and his head went to tell him where he was, and it didn't know. There were things Ziggy didn't like, and there were things Ziggy hated, and not knowing where he was was something he _hated_, and everything on the list of things he hated were things that terrified him.

His stuffed head protested as he sat up quick, wrenching eyes open, and the light hurt, and his right hand was a fist, and his left hand he couldn't feel at all, and he didn't know where he was or with who or what they wanted from him, but he would talk, and if talking didn't work, he would _fight_…

"Zig. Hey, Ziggy. Take it easy. Nothing's wrong; you're fine." He knew that voice. He accidentally trusted that voice.

"Dill'n." Right there, standing over him, and everything _was_ fine, wasn't it, because if something was wrong, Dillon would be doing something to fix it, and not standing there watching him. The relief didn't quite overtake the throbbing in his temples, and Ziggy squeezed his eyes shut. Fell back on the table, grabbed his head and groaned. "Ow. Ooh. What happened?" Then he remembered. The shot. "Ugh. What'd that guy _give_ me?"

"A concussion."

"What?"Startled, he opened his eyes.

"Well, yeah, _he_ didn't give you a concussion. You came in with that. Didn't tell anybody, but yeah, you came in with that."

"Oh." A concussion? He didn't think he'd hit the ground _that _hard when she threw him. Then again, he vaguely remembered the dizziness, and the headache was there like it always had been. "Oops."

"'Oops,'" Dillon nearly chuckled the word, like it surprised him. "'Oops,' he says. Yeah. You…you're a mess, man."

Ziggy puzzled over that as he sat himself up again, his movements slower than he meant for them to be. There was a brace on his wrist from hand to halfway up his forearm. He poked it. Nothing happened. He couldn't move his fingers, but nothing hurt anything like it had before. "Huh. It's done." He looked at Dillon. "It is done, right?"

"Yeah. Guy had this little machine he used, took him like a second to pop it back in. He just stepped out a second ago, said he'd be right back. You've been out of it seven minutes."

"Oh. That's…an oddly precise number." He squinted at his wrist. Set it down in his lap. Kicked his feet on the side of the exam table. "So…we can go now, right?"

"That depends. You gonna pass out again?"

"I'll think about it. Let you know in the car."

"Right. I think you still have stuff to sign. Then I'm pretty sure we can get out of here."

"Don't suppose they could just mail me the forms?"

"'Care of Dr. K'?"

"Oh. That does seem like a bad idea."

"Yeah, sorry. We're here till the doctor says you can go. I really don't want a repeat of the whole eyes-rolling-back-in-your-skull thing. Sort of inconvenient."

"That's sweet." It actually was. Anyone else, and the words probably would've been exactly what they sounded like. But this was Dillon being nice. It was just that being nice seemed to annoy Dillon, and Ziggy thought that was kind of funny. The glare Dillon gave him made him grin.

"Next time I let you hit the floor," Ranger Black growled.

"I don't think that's keeping to the Power Rangers code."

"We don't have a code."

"Note to self: don't sustain another head injury until we get a code."

"Note to Ziggy: _don't_ _sustain_ _another_ _head_ _injury_."

"Aha. Noted."

The door opened then, and Dr. Lincoln walked in. Actually, at the moment, Ziggy couldn't remember what the man's actual name was. It'd forever be ingrained in his memory that he was treated by the sixteenth President of the United States. He had such a weird memory. "Hey now. There he is. How's the noggin?"

"Stuffed."

"I'd imagine. How many fingers am I holding up?" He held his hand behind his back.

Ziggy blinked. That was plainly unfair. "…This seems like an inconclusive test."

The doctor chuckled. "I'd call that the right answer." He clicked a penlight and got in Ziggy's face, shining it in each eye, and it was very uncomfortable, but it was over quickly. Abe stowed the light in a pocket. "Well, Mr. Grover, I'd say you're in good enough shape to get out of my hospital. Your wrist shouldn't be too much of an issue. Keep the brace on for at least a couple days, light duty for a week or two. Bump on your head is minor. Now, if your symptoms persist—you have any dizziness, pain, loss of memory or the like—_you_ need to say so, and _you_," he pointed to Dillon, "need to get him back in to see me."

"No problem, Doc," Dillon said like it was a serious promise.

Doctor shuffled to the tray he'd brought in and set on the counter. "Now, here I got you a couple pills that'll help your headache, and a prescription you can get filled if you want. Now, if they're gonna make you all excited again…"

"He'll take 'em." My, wasn't Dillon quick to volunteer. Black Ranger took the little pill cup and the water, and handed them to Ziggy with a look that promised unspeakable dangers if Ziggy so much as tried to talk his way out of it. Except that Ziggy didn't know how to _not_ _try_ to talk his way out.

"You know it's not impossible I could be severely allergic to…" A subtle growl from Dillon cut him off. "Then again, I suppose the odds are probably in my favor." He took the pills, forced them down with the water. Imagined them hitting his stomach. Made him nervous, but not as nervous as facing Dillon's wrath.

"All right then," Doctor slapped his knee and stood. "That's us finished. Nurse Leah is outside, she'll walk you back, get your John Hancock on a few forms, and you, young men, are free to go." That said, he headed for the door.

"Thank you, Dr. Morgan," Dillon said, and oh yeah, that was the man's name.

"Mmhm."

"Yeah, thanks," Ziggy echoed. He felt better. Good even. He was done. It was over. Nothing bad happened, and he could leave now with Dillon, and everything was fine. He was just another patient.

Leah stepped in with her smile and her prettiness. "Hey! Look at you!"

"Look at me," Ziggy smiled. He pulled Dillon's jacket to him and hopped down, and Dillon's steadying hand on his shoulder was surprising but not altogether unnecessary.

"How'd it go?"

"Didn't feel a thing." He absolutely did _not_ look at Dillon to see the amazed smirk.

"Well, let's get you squared away and get you home then, shall we?"

"We shall."

They followed her down the hall, and Ziggy looked around, and a few people met his eyes, and there was politeness in their smiles and nods, but most people didn't look at him at all, and it was wonderful. Like he could blend right in. Nothing out of place about him at all. He grinned at Dillon.

Dillon shook his head. "What?"

Ziggy shrugged and didn't quit grinning. "I think it's the pain pills."

At the front desk, Leah chattered at Dillon, explaining forms and documents and her lack of weekend plans, and Dillon nodded and gave single-syllable responses, and Ziggy didn't seem necessary for any of it. He looked around the lobby. _Oh_. _Hello_. There was a wheelchair. He could see it outside the glass entrance across the parking lot. Parked innocently there in the warm, imitation sunshine. He looked at Dillon whose back was turned to him, facing Leah, and she was sincere enough it might take awhile. Sure she didn't have a chance, but she'd never met Summer, so she didn't know _why_ she didn't have a chance. So yeah. It might take awhile. Slipping his arms into the jacket sleeves, Ziggy stepped away, and even if his steps were very quiet and careful, he was _not_ sneaking. He just wanted some freshly recycled air.

Oh, outside felt good. Outside felt really good. Freedom and brightness that made fears seem silly. He stood for a minute. The sun was starting to set. He could see where Dillon's car was parked, and there were people strolling about, and after everything—after Ranger tryouts and Venjix human infiltration attack bots and green morphers and Gopher bots and _hospitals_—it was actually a pretty day.

"Ziggy Grover. Oh, Ziggy. Could it really be you?" There was a lot of sneer there, and it made the warm air colder and it made the pretty day ugly. And also it might've made Ziggy's heart stop. He turned, slowly, and there, just outside the glass entrance, leaning against bricks, arms crossed, oh so casual, was something nightmares are made of.

"Ronin," he whispered, and he choked a little on it.

"Well, would you look at that." A gleaming, sick smile. "See, when V called me, said he'd spotted you, I thought no. No, man. No, I know the little guy ain't the sharpest tack, but no way on whatever's left of Earth would he be stupid enough to show his rat face anywhere near this city. But V was persistent; you know how he gets. And what do you know. He's right. Lucky me."

_V?_ Ziggy wondered, and it dawned. _Vick. Leah had called him Vick._ The technician in the control room. That's how Ziggy knew him. He was one of Ronin's Blue Crew. _Wow. Little slow on the uptake, Ziggy._ Still, he'd only seen the guy a couple times. Fresno Bob didn't mix with Ronin's guys when he could help it. Said they were unstable. That said a lot right there. "Well how about that," Ziggy said, smiling through his nervousness, inching backwards toward the hospital doors. "Who would've thought one of your guys would find a rewarding career in the medical field? I taste irony. Anyone else taste that?"

"Depends. Irony taste like your blood?"

Ziggy frowned. "That's a weird thing to say." With that, he spun around, desperate to make it the few feet to the doors, to Dillon and backup and safety. Out of nowhere, a hand caught the back of his jacket, swung him around, and the momentum carried him straight into brick wall. He wouldn't have thought he'd have so much momentum. He wheezed as the air was knocked from his lungs, and he vaguely registered the dull, lifeless smack that is the sound of body meeting bricks. It hurt, but not the kind of hurt that came with things not bricks cracking and breaking. _So, _he thought, _Ronin brought some of the Crew._ It meant a lot they thought he was worth that.

Rough hands grabbed him, pinning his arms to his sides, and without sound or effort, he was hauled off, and it occurred to him to struggle, and honestly he did, but most of the time his feet weren't even on the ground. "'s isn't a good idea," he wheezed when his breath caught up enough to allow him to. "There are people who will notice if I…" A hand he never saw popped him across the face, spun his head around. That didn't seem fair. He had a mild concussion.

The lights dimmed, and that was very worrying until he figured out he'd been pulled into an alley the next street over. Oh, it was still worrying, but at least he knew it was dimmer because there was less sunlight, and not because he was fading. Of course that may not matter in about, oh, five to ten minutes when he would be mercilessly slain.

They tossed him backwards, but he didn't fall because there was a wall there, conveniently placed to hold him up. He'd have Blue Crew bruises on top of Tenaya 7 bruises. "Guys," he said, trying to catch his breath, hands raised in front of himself, non-threatening. There were three of them. Plus Ronin who made four. "Let's talk about this a minute."

"You want to catch up? Has it been that long? Oh, you know I'm still the same old Ronin."

"Still have the same cool hair; I can tell you that right now."

"Silver-tongued Ziggy. I know you been playing Fresno Bob for years, but you don't think that'll work on me, do you?"

"Well, I guess you don't have the same kind of insecurities he does. It did get a lot easier when he got the toupee."

"Cute. Don't suppose you got a few million on you right now, do you?"

"That'd make a difference?"

"Ultimately, no. Just figured I'd ask before we get started. Blood don't wash out of money real well."

"Yeah." Visions of little kids, coughing, dying, and it would've been their blood all over that money. And no matter what happened, the choice he'd made had been the right one, and no matter what happened, he'd praise God for that truck getting a flat tire. No matter what happened. "Don't I know it."

The leader of Blue Crew took a step forward, and his hands fisted at his sides. His voice was low. "You know what I hate, Ziggy?"

"When people mistake you for Sears employees?"

The fists that caught in his jacket weren't altogether unexpected. But even with the pain pills, when his head connected with the wall, it hurt. His vision blurred for a second. And when it refocused, Ronin's face was right there. "You hearing me right now, Ziggy? You hear me?"

"I apologize," he slurred civilly. "Go ahead."

"I _hate_ when people steal from me. Like it's something they're gonna get away with. You thought you'd get away with it? You thought that even for a minute?"

No. No, not really. "Well. Maybe for a minute."

"Just cut him, Ronin." One of his minions said, and this guy seemed new and seemed like he didn't care one way or another. "Someone's gonna come along. He ain't worth that."

The other two also had opinions. Ziggy respected that. Fresno Bob didn't always let other people have opinions. Said something for Ronin's leadership.

"I say we sell him back to the Scorpions. Fresno Bob'll pay, you know that." That's what Spike Mike's boys would've done. Or the Yo-Yo Brothers. Probably even the South Town Sweet Tooths—Sweet Teeth?—would've been happy with that. But with the Crew…Somehow Ziggy doubted it would be that simple.

"Why should Bobby get all the fun? Kid crossed us, too. He gotta settle with us just as much."

Ronin was quiet a moment. His fists were tight; there was no give. "Ya'll see his jacket?" he asked lowly, almost condescending.

The Other Two blinked. New Guy was on his game, though. "That's Ranger issue, isn't it?"

"Mmhm." Ronin grinned. "See, Ziggy, I heard you'd fallen in with the law. Heard they yanked you from prison, was keeping you as a pet or something."

"Does somebody keep a _scrapbook_ for me somewhere or something?" First Fresno Bob knew he was back in town and now this? Seriously, who was keeping tabs? _And he wasn't a pet._ Although, he didn't think it'd be a great idea to tell them he was accidentally the new Ranger Green. Especially considering he didn't have his morpher on him. Oh how he wished he had his morpher.

"So here's how this goes," Ronin reclaimed his attention. "I call Bobby. Then I call your Ranger friends. Whoever wants to pay more can keep you."

"Ronin. We could catch some serious backlash if we get the Rangers on us."

"They won't do nothing to us. Not when we got their boy." He patted Ziggy on the side of the face, almost affectionate.

"After everything he stole from us? We just sell him off?"

"It's business boys. And besides, I never said he had to be in mint condition."

Ziggy swallowed. "I…I think that could hurt my resale value."

"I can afford it." He let go of the jacket with a flourish, and there was a flash of steel that matched the glint in his eyes. Ziggy's heart started pounding in earnest. Ronin blinked, and his voice was slow and sinister. "I still want my pound of flesh, Ranger boy."

"_Wait_." There was such urgency, Ronin actually pulled up, smiling at his prey with the patience of a hunter.

"You got something to say, say it now. We'll gag you when you start screaming."

"Just let me take the jacket off." Ronin quirked an eyebrow. "It's not mine; I borrowed it. From a Ranger, and it just…" Ziggy didn't finish.

Ronin grinned. "Well sure, kid. Don't want it cut and bloody. Sometimes you _can_ be a thinker." He motioned at Ziggy with the knife. "I'll wait."

It was Dillon's coat. Ziggy really didn't want anything to happen to it. So he was very, very sorry. Slipping out of the coat, he paused, straightened the sleeve a little. "You know," he grinned nervously. "No one's ever accused me of being a thinker before." With that, he whirled and threw it at Ronin's face, and the jacket was heavy enough, it stuck, and it was only one second, but if there was one thing Ziggy knew, it was how to take advantage of one second. Running away was a pastime.

Shouts and curses, and they were behind him. Ziggy was quick, small and long-legged, and maybe he was no good at fighting, but he'd been practicing not getting caught since he was little. He flew out of the alley, and it was Ronin's New Guy that was hot on his tail. The hospital was ahead, and Ziggy knew he couldn't lead them there. Too many people. There were four of the crazies, and someone might get hurt. He darted left, across the parking lot, weaving between cars, stepped up over the curb onto the grass, and he thought, if he could just put in some distance…

The blow from behind may as well have been from an eighteen wheeler. New Guy had leapt and took him out at the waist in a full-blown tackle, which was pretty impressive, and when had the Blue Crew recruitment standards gotten so high? Ziggy went down hard, and this guy twice his size was on top of him.

"That was sort of bold, kid," the man said, breathing hard. He flipped Ziggy over onto his back, straddling him, pinning him to the ground with a hand at his throat. "You got some quickness in you."

Ziggy would've replied, it may have even been a thank you for the compliment, but he couldn't breathe. He made a desperate attempt to smack the guy across the ear, disorient him, but his hand was swatted away like a fly.

"Ronin cut his hand when you threw that jacket. You made everything worse."

Yep. That sounded about right. The hand let up just enough on his windpipe for him to whisper, "Story of my life." And then the pressure was back.

The edges were sort of hazing into black, and there was a rushing sound in his ears. It hurt. Not breathing? Hurt a lot. Three more dark figures stepped up behind him.

"That's right. Go to sleep, sunshine."

Part of him wished he could. He was so tired. But most of him knew that when that happened, eventually he'd wake up, and there'd be knives and anger and lots and lots more pain.

* * *

Dillon was nodding and trying to be as uninteresting and unengaging as possible. Poor girl. She was still trying. She was leaning against the main desk, her arm up on the counter, and she was trying to be as interesting and engaging as possible.

"…if you ever wanted to come."

"No. You know, I'm not really much of the hang out type. I…work a lot. Actually. So. Yeah, where does he sign? 'Cause we really should probably get back. Um…parents you know. Worry."

"Oh. Yeah." Even disappointed, she still smiled. Brightly. "Okay. Well…Sure then. I just need him to sign here and get a copy of his insurance, and that's really about…it."

Come to think of it, Ziggy had been pretty invisible since they'd gotten to the desk. And when Dillon turned around, he found out why. Either Ziggy really had gone invisible, or the kid was just nowhere to be found. He felt a surge of irritation, not least of which may have been caused by Ziggy's hospital paranoia that Dillon still vehemently denied was contagious. He turned all the way around, eyes scanning for some sign of the wayward Ranger.

"Oh," Leah said, surprised. "Where'd he go?"

_Why would you wander off? Why?_ Ziggy. Always with the complications. Ziggy, who didn't have his morpher on him, so Ziggy, who couldn't be reached. "I'm gonna kill him."

"I'll help you find him."

"Yeah. Go look back the way we came." It was an order, and his tone was short, and it didn't occur to him that that was rude. Instead, he headed for the door. That was what Ziggy had wanted since they'd stepped through it in the first place. He'd wanted out of the building. _Little punk couldn't wait five more minutes?_ Dillon stepped outside, scanning the parking lot as he walked toward his car, fully intending to grab the kid by the scruff of the neck, throw him back inside, and threaten to leave him there. This was just childish. Ziggy was drugged and concussed, and roaming off alone in the middle of the city was stupid, and no Dillon wasn't _worried_, he was wholly annoyed, and that's why his steps were so quick, and that's why his gaze was so sharp, and that's why the nearby scream made his heart leap up into his throat.

Dillon ran. There was a small group of three or four, a family maybe, and there was the little girl who screamed while she was being pulled away, and people were shouting and calling for police, and all of them were moving _away_, and none of them were _helping_. Because there was a man on the ground, crowded by three others. And there was a much smaller figure under him. Dillon didn't even really think. At all.

He shouted as he sprinted forward, so the guy really should've seen it coming. As it was, a pair of widening eyes met his a split second before he hit. He heard a grunt as they both went sprawling across the grass. Dillon slid to a stop, and the guy managed to land a blow to his stomach, and Dillon's jaw tightened, and he was very, very angry. He flipped over, onto his feet, and the man was still on his knees. It only took one hit. One punch, right across the jaw, and there was _fierceness_ behind it. The man's head snapped back, and he hit the ground. Wouldn't be getting up for awhile.

"Zig!" When he looked up, there was one guy dragging the kid, kicking and struggling. And two guys stepping toward Dillon. The men were large, well-muscled, with the kind of eyes too accustomed to seeing terrible things. Dillon's posture automatically shifted into a fighting stance, fists tightening, adrenaline fueling already-enhanced muscles. "You really prepared to deal with me now? I'm kind of in a hurry. Don't have time to waste being careful."

"Oh, this guy's frightful. Kind of big talk for a kid who's got the disadvantage."

"Two of you against one of me?" Dillon smiled grimly. "Funny." He surged forward, catching a wild kick and sending the guy to the ground. He spun and caught the other in the face with his heel. Broken nose, easy. Man went down crying. The first one had made it to his feet by then and pulled a skinny, four-inch blade, and it was cowardice and desperation. He lunged at Dillon who dodged, grabbing the arm and twisting. The knife fell. The guy screamed. Dillon punched him in the side of the head, and he lost consciousness without another sound.

He looked over to see Ziggy struggling in earnest with the last guy. Would've smiled if he'd thought about it. Ziggy was scrappier than people gave him credit for. Slipperier, too. And he had those bony elbows. The man reared back as Ziggy caught him in the face, and Dillon was already running.

RPMRPMRPMRPMRPMRPMRPMRPM

* * *

Ziggy bit back a cry as Ronin caught him below the eye with a lucky backhanded shot. The man was still grabbing at him, cursing and spitting and yelling with the crazy kind of fury. Ronin was big. Strong and fast. And if something didn't happen, there was no way Ziggy would win this fight.

It was out of the corner of his eye that he saw the wheelchair. Parked there at the top of the hill. And Ziggy nearly grinned.

He ducked a right hook, and planted a kick to the shin as hard as he could. There was a roar, and Ronin nearly foamed at the mouth. Ziggy spun out, away from the attack, and ran, Ronin breathing down his neck. The wheelchair was ten yards away. Five. Three. One. Ziggy dropped into a crouch. There was brief pain as a hundred and ninety pounds of gang leader crashed into him and went toppling over. Landed awkwardly on that wheelchair, nearly flipping it, and Ziggy was up. He released the brakes on the chair, and pushed, using Ronin's own momentum and running forward, and there was that nice steep hill. They picked up speed. Fast. Ronin cursed, and shot a kick out, catching Ziggy in the ribs, and Ziggy went down, tumbling on the pavement, scraping and rolling. But he wasn't going nearly so fast as Ronin was now. He skidded to a stop on his belly and looked up to watch Tough Enough Ronin, drug lord of the surviving world, screaming down that hill and trying to right himself on the chair, slow it, stop it. And before he could, the chair jolted off the curb into the road, tipping sideways, and Ronin _flew_. Hit a parked car and _bounced_ off onto the ground. There was very little movement after that.

Ziggy stayed on the ground, panting. _Whoa._ _Did that really just happen?_ He'd gotten in a fight with Ronin. And he wasn't dead. Wasn't even missing a pound of flesh. Oh, sure there was some road rash. And of course, there was a cartel now that had one more good reason for wanting him ghosted, but still. _I won?_

Suddenly there were hands on his shoulders, pulling him up, and he just _knew_ it couldn't be that easy. "Hey! It was an accident, I didn't…"

"Ziggy. Shut up; it's me. Are you okay?"

"Dillon!" Picking him up off the ground, steadying him. Ziggy took a deep breath and tried to keep his smile from shaking. "To the rescue, as usual. I don't know how you do that, but let me tell you, it never gets old."

The hands were holding him by the arms, eyes urgent and searching. "Listen to the question, Zig: How bad off are you?"

Oh, he hurt, no mistake. He didn't think there was any part of him that didn't hurt. Except his wrist. That he still couldn't feel. He opened his mouth to lie, though, because that was instinct. But he stopped. Found he didn't really want to lie. "Don't worry. I've had worse." There. That wasn't a lie at all. And still it was deflection. He liked that.

"You're bleeding." Ranger Black sounded decidedly unhappy about that.

"Oh." Well, yeah. There was a cut just below his hairline on the right side of his forehead. And he'd probably have a black eye. And his chin was a little scraped up. But the rest of everything could be hid. He looked at his arms, scraped elbows and all. Long sleeves for awhile then. "I need a new pair of jeans," he said absently, gazing at the blown out knees.

"Then again," Dillon shrugged, letting go and putting his hands in his pockets and gazing down the hill, and there was a smile that wasn't a smirk, "you should see the other guy."

Ziggy followed his gaze. There was Ronin. Still there. Still still. Wouldn't be still for long. But there was something like pride in Dillon's voice, and the man at the bottom of the hill seemed like something to worry about tomorrow. He grinned. "You saw that, right? Tell me that wasn't the single most awesome thing you've ever seen in your life. You can't. Am I right? 'Cause that was _sweet_." He bounced on his toes. Found that even they hurt, but he didn't care. "I wasn't even morphed."

"Mm. Speaking of." Dillon produced the Series Green morpher, and handed to him. "I don't care what's going on, I vote you never take this off again."

Ziggy took the morpher. His morpher. Felt the weight of it. Smiled. "I'll second that." He glanced up. Fought a sudden surge of shyness that came with sheer gratitude. "Thanks," he said, "for again halting what seemed like my inescapable doom."

Dillon shrugged softly. "Kind of a habit now." He glanced back. Dangerous. "Who _was_ that guy?"

"Um...Old friend of an old friend."

"Don't like him."

Ziggy snorted. "Well, let's be fair, Dillon, you hardly gave him a chance."

An arm settled across Ziggy's shoulders, tugging him away from the scene. "Come on. Police'll be here soon. They can handle cleanup."

Ziggy let himself be towed along. Leaned into the arm around him, and it might've been what was holding him up, and maybe Dillon didn't notice, and in any case, Dillon didn't seem to mind, and Ziggy thought Dillon would've made a really good big brother. He even made a really good pretend big brother. "Where we going?" he asked absently.

"Seriously?" Dillon glanced at him. "Three guesses."

"Um. Candy store?"

"No."

"City park?"

"Nuh-uh."

"Home?" he asked hopefully. He felt Dillon pause. Oh. The word had just sort of slipped out. Neither of them had called the garage home. It really wasn't a home. It didn't belong to either of them. But Ziggy did like saying the word. Felt right.

"Eventually," Dillon allowed at last. "Got a stop to make first."

"Where?"

"Hospital, moron. You look like a zombie."

Ziggy felt his heart sink. "That's unkind."

* * *

A/N: One more chapter after this, I think.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

The sun had long since set by the time Dillon pulled the Fury into the garage and shut off the engine. Sighed.

Longest. Day. Ever.

He glanced over to his passenger. "Ziggy." No response from the figure curled up against the door. Dillon thought that was fair, considering the kid was probably the only person on the planet who'd had a longer day than he had. Guy was out. Looked almost peaceful, really. Probably would've looked more peaceful without the black eye and various other cuts and bruises. Made Dillon so mad. That those thugs had found the kid just to hurt him, and Dillon had come very terribly close to never seeing him again, and he would never even have known why, and there would have been a whole new set of nightmares. If there wasn't already. But Ziggy was right there. Sleeping. Almost peaceful. Made Dillon so glad. He unbuckled his seatbelt. "Hey. Zig." Reached over and shook the nearest shoulder.

There was an immediate hiss, "Ah, _don't_," and Ziggy flinched away from him, plunking his head against the window. Another hiss, and hands were raised defensively, and Ziggy didn't seem to understand where he was.

"Hey." Dillon waited for bleary, anxious eyes to focus on him. Watched Ziggy relax as his head caught up to where they were. "Sorry," he shrugged, honestly remorseful. "Forgot." Last thing Ziggy needed right then was to get jostled. Dillon had gone with him into the trauma unit. They'd taken his shirt off, and there had been bruises on top of bruises and raw, open scrapes on top of those. Kid was just generally torn up.

"'s okay." Ziggy shook his head. "We home?"

_I don't know. Maybe._ Dillon cleared his throat and answered what Ziggy was asking. "Yeah. We're here."

"Good." Ziggy suddenly frowned. Rubbed his face. "Did you hit me?"

"What? No."

"Oh. Yeah, you wouldn't. Thank you. Very much." He turned and pulled the door handle, heaving a quiet groan as he shoved the door open like it weighed a ton. "Come on."

Dillon rolled his eyes and followed suit. "I don't think I like you on pain meds."

"You made me take 'em. I…" he trailed off while thinking of the word, "protested."

Before Dillon could say anything else, there were Rangers everywhere.

"There you guys are." The irritation in Summer's voice almost covered the worry. That didn't remind Dillon of anyone. "Where…_Ziggy_." And there was the horror.

"Good grief, man!" Flynn said as he stepped toward the Green Ranger, squinting. "Dr. K said you might have a _wrist_ injury. You look as if you've been mauled! Like by a lion. You weren't this bad when we got back; what's happened?"

Scott's eyebrows were somewhere up under his ridiculous hair. He glanced at Dillon. "You didn't do that to him, right?"

Dillon rolled his eyes. "I know that's not a serious question."

"Where did you two go?" Summer demanded.

"The hospital." Of course.

Ziggy raised his hand. "I hate it there by the way."

"He does."

Ranger Green nodded heavily. "Terrible things happen."

Dillon tugged him forward, passed the three gaping senior members of the team and toward the lower level bathroom. "Hang tight a second." He retreated up the stairs and into his and Ziggy's room. He rummaged through Ziggy's drawer, grabbing socks and boxers, and he found an old pair of dark gray sweat pants, but all Ziggy had otherwise were t-shirts. Kid had nothing warmer. _Kidding me._ Dillon picked through his own stuff, pulled out a black sweat shirt, and headed downstairs. By the time he got there, Ziggy was in the center of a circle of Ranger concern and trying to figure out whether or not he loved it.

"Really it wasn't anything anyone with…supremely honed defensive skills and a deep-seated sense of justice wouldn't've done." Maybe Dillon's memory was a little screwy, but he was pretty sure he'd never heard anyone hopped up on pain meds string together a sentence like that. Even if Ziggy was slurring a little.

Summer had her hand on his arm. If the way Scott and Flynn were keeping close was any indication, she wasn't the only one worried their newest member might topple over.

"Wait." Flynn looked confused. He wasn't the only one either. "So…you managed to take down a mafia drug lord with…a hospital-issue wheelchair?"

"And Dillon," Ziggy nodded. "And gravity."

" 'Gravity' isn't the name of another one of your street friends, is it?" Scott asked.

"No." Ziggy looked vaguely thoughtful. "I did know a fence once who called himself Sir Isaac Newton. Good guy. Wore these weird…" he gestured absently around his collar, "shirts. An' any time you had to move stolen goods, he'd always, always give you a fair…"

"O-kay," Dillon cut him off, coming up behind him. "Come on." He had to search for an unscathed patch of arm to grab and steer Ziggy into the bathroom. "Get cleaned up. Take a bath, not a shower." Last thing the kid needed was to slip and brain himself on the shower floor. "Do not lock the door, and do _not_ fall asleep. You got ten minutes. You take more than ten minutes, I send Summer in to check on you." Ziggy's ears turned red, and he looked horrified. "Yeah. You don't want that. I don't think anybody wants that." He dumped the clothes into his roommate's arms and ended with a condescending tousle of already-mussed hair and an impatient, "Ten minutes starts now."

He'd made it to the bathroom door before he heard "Dillon?"

Dillon turned. "Mm?"

Ziggy looked puzzled and it made him look helpless. He pulled out the folded sweatshirt and held it out by one sleeve. "This isn't mine."

Dillon thought that was pretty obvious. "Borrow it."

Ziggy looked more helpless. He still held out the shirt and quit looking at Dillon. Didn't move for a second. Then, "I don't want it," he said quietly.

Eyebrows shot up. That was sort of insulting. "Why?"

"I…" Ziggy stopped. Dillon braced himself for some story, some lie, because whenever Ziggy got weird like this there was always a reason, and Dillon would probably never know what those reasons were. But Ziggy surprised him. "I don't want to say."

Dillon frowned. "Say anyway."

"Dillon," Ziggy sighed. "I…lost your jacket." Cringed a little.

Dillon waited for the something else that would explain why Ziggy was so reluctant. Nothing else was forthcoming. "I know." Duh.

Ziggy's head popped up. Shock. "You _know_?"

"Yeah. I noticed. I'm not blind."

"You didn't say anything." It was almost an accusation until he caught himself. "I mean I…I'm sorry. It just seemed like the only way to get away from him, and he was saying…stuff, an' he was smiling, and he was gonna…and then I…I was medicated at the time, right? Didn't know what I was doing really. So…"

"Zig." The younger boy quit rambling at the floor and winced a little. Bracing himself? Dillon shook his head. Unbelievable. What was the kid thinking? "It was a jacket."

"It was yours." Stubborn.

"Yeah. Doesn't upset me."

"Really?" Surprise. Hope. "Why?"

"You're still breathing." Dillon shrugged. "Pretty easy trade." He gave a reluctant, lop-sided grin. "Besides, I can just have them order me a new one when they order you yours."

"Think they'll get me one? My track record with jackets isn't real encouraging of late. I'm...irresponsible." He nodded like he wasn't being serious.

"If it means you don't get dead," Dillon said, voice a little more serious than he meant it to be, "lose the jacket. Every time. You hang onto the jacket and get yourself hurt," _or worse_ "then you'll see me mad."

"Oh." Thinking that made it issue resolved, Dillon turned back toward the door. Should've known better. "Dillon?"

He turned back again, exasperated. "_What_?"

Ziggy paused and Dillon waited. "Thank you." Ziggy was a con artist. Yes. That was true. But right then—the brown eyes glazed over with exhaustion and pain, glancing up at him under the eyelashes, _bashful_ of all things—didn't take a genius to figure out that wasn't all he was. He was a lonely kid in way over his head. He was mouthy and obnoxious and a thief and a liar. He was afraid of things he had every right to be afraid of. He was stubborn and crafty and mysterious and maddening. And he was—maybe—Dillon's best friend.

Dillon opened his mouth, ready to shrug off the sincere-bordering-on-sappy thanks, but Ziggy beat him to the punch.

"_Thank you_ for taking my kitchen duty for…I believe we said a month, didn't we?" The innocence. Oh, the innocence.

Dillon felt his jaw drop. "What…"

Suddenly there was a little slip of paper fluttering around in Ranger Green's hand. "Digits. Seven of them. Written in pink gel ink with…_oh_. Is that glitter?" Innocence was gone. Smugness reigned. "Cute."

Dillon grabbed the paper. "She did _not_ give you her number."

"She did." Grinning like the proverbial cat. "And she wants you to call her before the weekend."

"Wha…You…" Realization dawned, and Dillon covered his disbelieving smirk with a hard glare. "You got her number _for_ _me_?" Oh, Dillon had to resist the urge to knock the kid upside the head. Concussion and all.

"Don't think we ever covered that in the rules. Kind of a gray area. But I believe_ I_ did get her number. Think that meets _all_…the stated requirements."

"I'm not calling her."

"I told her that. She thought I was lying. Wasn't much I could do about that."

"You're a rotten cheater."

"But a rotten cheater who won't have to scrub dishes for a month."

"I could kill you."

"Well then you'd be doing my chores _forever_."

Dillon shook his head, looking at the paper. Seven numbers. Signed Leah. With a heart. He glanced up at Ziggy, and his glare turned into a tight-lipped grin. Swung an arm and cuffed Ziggy lightly in the side of the head. Couldn't have hurt. "I'm outraged."

"Clearly."

Rough sigh that was _not _a chuckle. "Just hurry up. Don't drown."

"Good advice."

Grinning, Dillon tried again to leave. This time he nearly made it. Could've made it if he'd pretended not to hear.

"You didn't have to, you know." Voice was suddenly quiet. Saying more things than the words could. "None of it."

This time when Dillon stopped, he didn't turn. "Think I did actually."

"Why?" It was a hesitant sort of question. The kind the asker wasn't sure he should ask.

"Well, word on the street is," Dillon said, glancing over his shoulder, "me and you are brothers."

This time Dillon made it out the door, shutting it firmly behind him. But not before he caught a glimpse of the sudden delighted smile. Just about scorched his retinas.

* * *

Summer hadn't moved since Dillon had ushered Ziggy off. Come to think of it, neither had Flynn or Scott. At last Flynn reached up and scratched his head. "Looked sort of rough, didn't he?"

"Only Ziggy," Scott sighed, eyebrows having still not lowered. "Is it just me, or does it seem like everyone in Corinth wants our newest Ranger dead?"

"Trust me," Dillon said, appearing next to Summer. "It's not just you."

Summer sent him a short welcome smile. "Great. So do we know _why_ everyone in Corinth wants our newest Ranger dead?"

"We don't." Dillon glanced toward the closed bathroom door. "He does, though."

"Not saying, I take it?" Flynn ventured.

Dillon shrugged. "Not yet."

Scott didn't look happy about it. Not that any of them were particularly happy about it. "It's kind of a safety issue."

"Thought I noticed that."

"It's gonna be hard to fight Venjix if we have to fight our own people, too."

"Just 'cause they're people doesn't make them our own. There were four of them. Against Ziggy." Dillon shook his head, face grim and set. "They _smiled_."

Dr. K's voice really shouldn't surprise them anymore. "Our primary objective here is to defeat Venjix and secure the future of humanity." There was a pause. "With that stated and unquestioned, any threat to one of our Operators _is_ a threat to the future of humanity. And should be treated as such." The danger in the voice caused all of them to look at each other.

Flynn grinned. "The Doc's been emotional like this since we found out Ziggy was hurt."

"I assure you, emotion has nothing to do with it. I am merely stating…"

"Yeah, yeah. We hear you," Summer tried to keep a straight face. "You mess with one of us, you mess with all of us."

"As a necessity," the doctor practically sniffed. "Yes, of course."

"Oh, now you're just being sappy." Flynn was pushing buttons on purpose now.

"I do not understand how stating relevant and necessary facts could possibly constitute as 'sappy.' Ranger Operator Series Blue, I'd rather you kept your sentimental fantasizing to yourself as it serves no purpose in an open forum where we should be discussing pertinent information applicable to our purpose."

"Really, I had no idea you were so sentimental. Honestly, if saving the world doesn't work out for you, might I suggest writing greeting cards. Yours is a rare gift. Truly." There was such joy in Flynn's snarkiness.

Scott was practically giggling.

"This conversation is now over. Obviously you're too delirious with fatigue to be much use to me at the moment. I suggest you get a good night's rest, Series Blue."

Scott slapped his friend's shoulder. "That's probably not-so-subtle Dr. K-speak for, 'I'm going to run you 'til you drop tomorrow."

"Oi. Well. I suppose I could use a good challenge. As if today weren't enough of one." His grimace was still part smile.

Openly grinning, Summer nudged Dillon. "Come on. You hungry?"

"Yeah, actually."

"I made muffins," Flynn volunteered, and he had, and he was still excited about them. He started toward the kitchen, and one of the things Summer liked best about him was that no matter what, he always seemed like he was winning.

Dillon leaned toward Summer. "I thought smoothies were his specialty."

"Oh, they are," she agreed. "But it was a box recipe this time, and he only tried to improve them a little." At his look she continued. "It worked out. They're good. Not like last time."

"The blue ones," Scott shuddered as he followed after Flynn.

Dillon looked uncertain. "Blueberry?"

Summer winced. "Apple cinnamon." Ooh, that had been a bad day. Before Dillon could respond, the phone rang on the side table by the couch. Summer grabbed the handset, reflexively sobering. "Hello?"

"Hello." She didn't immediately recognize the voice. Male. Perhaps older. Dillon stood closer, frowning. "I was looking for Ziggy Grover. Is this his residence?"

In light of recent events, Summer was feeling quite protective and quite suspicious of anyone who came querying about her Ranger Green. "I'm sorry, who is this?"

"Oh, right. I'm Dr. Morgan. I treated the boy's wrist this evening, and I heard there was some trouble before he could get himself released. I was booked up with some other patients and didn't get to see him before they let him go. Just wanted to check in with him, make sure he was all right. This is the number he listed in his chart, so…"

Dillon's eyebrows were raised, and he was mouthing questions at her about who was calling.

"Oh. Dr. Morgan." She looked at Dillon, and he relaxed a bit, and it made her relax, but his eyes were still questioning. "Yeah, Ziggy lives here. But…he's in the shower now, cleaning up."

"I see. Could I speak with his brother?"

"His brother?" Oh. That blew her away. There was a lot about Ziggy she didn't know. She admitted, "I…didn't know he had a…"

"That's for me." Dillon reached for the phone, and she released it without thinking. "Dr. Morgan. Something wrong?" The anxiousness was written into the lines of his face, but whatever the doctor said next smoothed them out pretty quickly. It was Summer's turn to try to get Dillon to answer her questioning eyes. "Oh. Good. No, yeah, he's fine. I mean, he's pretty banged up, but he'll live." He paused, and Summer tried to ask, but he held up a hand, and she rolled her eyes. "It was Dr.…Youse I think she said." He paused as the doctor spoke again and Summer motioned for speaker phone, and Dillon ignored her, and she wanted to punch him. He snorted, "No. I don't think Ziggy liked her either. How he was with you…apparently that was him relaxed. No, she made him nervous. He kept saying something about Lincoln at least being better than Margaret Hamilton…?" She didn't need speakerphone to hear the doctor laughing on the other end of the line. Dillon looked like he thought it was funny but didn't really get the joke.

Eventually this Dr. Morgan must've sobered and been content with the answers he'd gotten. She could tell the conversation was winding down. "Okay. I will. Thanks for calling. Yeah. Bye." He ended the call. _Finally_ seemed to notice Summer standing there. "What?"

"His brother?" Her smile was slow and wide. Everyone knew Ziggy was Dillon's responsibility. It went unspoken, sure, but everyone knew it from the time Dillon brought the kid home like some yappy little puppy he had no idea what to do with. It was just so insanely gratifying to hear him acknowledge it.

Dillon shrugged. "It's what they wanted to hear to let me go back with him."

Summer thought she would melt. It was very difficult to keep herself from just dissolving into a puddle of _awwww…_ right there on the floor.

Dillon rolled his eyes like a guy. "Don't look at me like that."

"It's kind of adorable," she told him, unrepentant.

"I'm not adorable."

"Not usually. You've definitely got some in you, though." He gave her a much more tolerable version of his usual glare. "Don't worry," she held up her hands and tried not to be smug. Well, sort of tried. "I won't spread it around. Scout's honor." She grinned. "Although suddenly I feel compelled to buy you bunk beds and to carry a picture of you wearing matching sweaters."

"You're not funny."

"I think I'm kinda funny."

"You would." He walked past her all blustery, and it surprised her she knew him well enough to know it was mostly an act. Her grin widened, but she took all the teasing out of it. She really didn't want to tease him too much about finding a little piece of family in Ziggy. They both needed it too much.

"Dillon," she said, and he turned back without looking annoyed. She felt warmer these days when she looked at him and he looked back without looking annoyed. "I'm sort of proud of you," she said in confidence. Then shrugged. "I mean I know I'm not really in a position to take any credit for you, but I'm proud knowing you."

He quirked an eyebrow. "I actually get that."

"Really?" 'Cause she didn't completely.

"Mmhm. Come on. I'm not eating any of these muffins 'til I see you take a bite first."

She snorted. "Chivalry _is_ dead."

"If there was a door, I'd hold it open for you."

"Oh, thanks _so_ much, good sir."

"Milady." And before he went to the kitchen, he crossed back to the bathroom door and knocked twice loudly. "Ziggy? You still conscious?"

The returning voice was muffled by the running shower. "Umm. Let me check. Yep. Also I'm _pretty _sure I haven't drowned yet."

"Good news."

"Soap hurts."

"That's life."

Ziggy garbled some response that Summer didn't quite catch, and Dillon chuckled and told him he had two more minutes. She did catch the theatrical moan. They _were_ like brothers, she thought. And actually, they sort of had been since she first met them. Scott and Flynn were brothers, too, but that was different. That was born of common goals and interests and respect and necessity. Dillon and Ziggy, though, they had something else. Something all about choice. And even if it had been coincidence, at the end of the day, it wasn't accident. Dillon took care of Ziggy, and Ziggy got Dillon out of his head, and it was natural and unspoken and on purpose. They were opposites in about every way. They even got on each other's nerves. Daily. But she'd seen each of them do something selfless and beyond the call for the sake of the other on numerous occasions. Brought out the best and each other. Because what she saw now when she looked at them both was certainly different than the brooding, overconfident jerk she'd met in Dillon or the babbling idiot she'd met in Ziggy. They'd both been loners who should never have been alone. Maybe that's why they'd bonded so quickly.

"Summer. I told him if he wasn't out in two minutes you'd be in to check on him."

She raised her eyebrows. "I don't want that."

He smiled, and there was humor. "Nobody wants that."

Summer hardly knew how to respond. "Muffins?" she offered.

"Starving."

* * *

Ziggy awoke rather unpleasantly. He must've shifted or something because the ache in his ribs flared just this side of unbearable. He muffled a groan in the crook of his arm and then lifted his head, foggy brain trying to process where he was. There was a flash of panic as he realized this was definitely _not_ his bed and _not_ his room. And just as quickly, he relaxed. No, it wasn't his bed. It was the couch.

The shower had relaxed some of the soreness out of him, but even so, stairs had _so_ not seemed like a good idea. He'd suggested a movie for form's sake, knowing he wouldn't last through the opening credits, planning to quietly pass out while everyone else went to bed. Curiously enough, though, Dillon—who by all rights should've been sick to death of him—had plopped down next to him on the couch. Then Summer sat on Dillon's other side, smiling and suggesting movie titles. Flynn had sprawled on the floor with his usual cheeriness, and there had been banana nut muffins that were _delicious_, and even Scott came in and claimed the recliner, tossing him a grin and the phrase "Welcome to the freak show," which Ziggy didn't understand, but it sounded like an actual welcome, and before he could ask, Scott was shooting down all the titles Summer suggested and catching all the pillows she threw. It had been late. Didn't make sense that they should want to watch a movie right then. But all of them stayed. And now, movie over, lights dim in the early morning, there was a blanket draped over him that he was sure hadn't been there before. And everyone was still there. Albeit in different places.

Summer was curled in the recliner now tilted all the way back. Scott had crashed on the floor right in front of the coffee table, and Flynn lay a few feet away sleeping on his side facing away from the TV, one cushion under his head, another clutched in his arms. And Dillon was sitting upright on the other end of the sofa, and he could've been awake if it hadn't been for the slow breathing and chin sunk to his chest.

Ziggy looked at all of them, gathered around him, and he thought, this is what it must be like. Not that he had much to compare it to, but this is what it must be like to belong somewhere. He'd seen it in Summer and Scott and Flynn. They were where they knew where they were supposed to be, and they had other people who knew it, too. And maybe this wasn't exactly the same. Because Ziggy really wasn't where he was supposed to be at all, and he knew it and they knew it, but he was there, and they didn't seem to actively want him gone so much anymore. It was awesome.

Well, except for the rather intense pain that threaded all through him. Apparently sleeping, though he'd been convinced it was all he really needed, had allowed all his abused muscles to stiffen and all the blood to settle in his chest and all the bruises to settle in deep and all the medication to wear off. Slowly, carefully, Ziggy eased himself up, keeping all the sounds of pain muffled in the back of his throat. He was sitting then, up on the couch, and he felt sort of feverish and shaky, and it seemed like a good idea to take a break. He usually ran a low grade fever after getting hurt like this. Wasn't sure why, but it was annoying, though. Made everything even more uncomfortable and harder to think straight and harder to not cry like a little girl. He took a couple quiet deep breaths. He'd had pills. Dillon had made sure they picked up his pills, and he _wanted_ them now. Where were they? His eyes scanned around, and it took an inordinately long time to spot them on the coffee table right under his nose. Oh.

He reached forward to get them, and had to stop, and would've shouted if nobody had been around. Too fast. Don't move so fast. Why was the coffee table so far away? He had to bend forward at the waist to reach out to get them. It was like three feet. This shouldn't be so hard. He reached out again with his left hand, wrapping his right around his sore middle, and just a little further, and the room had gone from warm to hot, and he blamed his lack of depth perception on the stupid dim lighting because his brace-covered left hand bumped the bottle, and it tipped and rolled slowly off the other side of the coffee table. Fell to the floor with hardly a sound, and all those pills were inside and just so far away. Ziggy hung his head and let out a small sigh that was not even _close_ to a sob. He had to work up a lot of courage to get his legs ready to lift him, because now there'd be walking and bending, and this was going to _hurt_.

He began to move forward, ready to lever himself up, when there was an arm stretched out in front of him, blocking him from going any farther. Startled him. He looked over, and Dillon was watching him.

"Where are you going?"

"Uh…I…" He was going to lie. Because people think you're weak when you take medicine when you hurt, and you should never let people think you're weak because then that gives them license to hurt you, and… He shook his head, quieting instincts. This wasn't people. This was Dillon. "The pills fell." He pointed. And he was a little proud of himself for telling the truth. "I got 'em."

"No."

He swiveled his head toward Dillon, and there was shock and hurt. Dillon _said_ he needed the pills, and Dillon _made_ him get the pills, so why would Dillon not let him have them now when he hurt so bad? "B-But I…I need…" He stopped. Were instincts right? Was Dillon the same as people?

Dillon shook his head. "You're in a roomful of people, moron," he said quietly, almost scolding. "Are you serious?"

Ziggy wasn't sure what that meant, and he was too muddled to know how to pretend, and he didn't remember how to smile like he was dumb.

Dillon sighed and explained. "_You_ stay put." The arm that had cut off his pain pill rescue mission pushed him gently back into the cushions. "I got this. Next time wake somebody up." Shook his head and said, "Crazy," like he was talking to himself.

And Dillon was standing and moving, and bending down without effort, and in three seconds he was holding pills when it would've taken Ziggy three minutes and probably would've felt like three years.

"Oh," he croaked. It seemed simple, and he felt silly for still being so amazed.

"Yeah. I'm going to get a glass of water. You need anything else?" Ziggy shook his head. "Fine. Try to get up again, I may kill you."

"Seems extreme."

"Then don't move."

And Dillon disappeared, and Ziggy had to wonder why he had to wait for Dillon to get a glass of water to take his pills, and it took almost until Dillon got back to figure out the water was for him. Two pills were held out, and a glass of water was held out, and Dillon looked impatient, but the impatience wasn't real, it was just something to paste over the concern, and there was fever, and that's why there were tears.

Ziggy swallowed and blinked and accepted the pills and the glass without saying anything. Dillon sat next to him, and their shoulders touched, and Ziggy's throat was almost too tight for the pills to fit down.

"You should actually probably take those with food," Dillon said with unhappy hindsight.

Ziggy shook his head. He wasn't hungry. At all. He was probably still full of muffins.

"You okay?"

A nod. Ziggy would've trusted Ronin more than he trusted his voice right then.

"You're not gonna be sick, are you?"

Shook his head again. _Stop being nice, Dillon. Please_. It was much easier to be okay when everyone expected you to suck it up and keep your mouth shut. Easier to pretend when pretending was the only option you had.

"Okay. Say something so I know you're not choking on pills."

Well. He sort of was choking. Just not on pills. He did not want to say something and sound all broken and weepy. And besides, when words started going, sometimes they didn't stop, and more of them came out than were supposed to, and a lot of hurt and sadness and worry and aloneness would all come tumbling out, and that'd be a shame because he'd spent a lot of time saving all that up to lose it all now. So he kept his mouth shut. He was no fool.

"Zig?"

He hated it when Dillon called him that. Hated it. Because he liked it too much.

There were hands on his shoulders, sort of frantic, and it hurt, and he was turned to face Dillon, and he didn't look up, but then there was a hand on his jaw, tilting his face up, and that he couldn't fight.

"Okay, I'm serious, Ziggy, if you're not dying, you gotta say something before I sound the alarm."

"'m okay, Dillon; stop," he begged, and he jerked his head away, and the motion freed one of those traitorous tears that had been building up in his eyes, and it slipped down his face, and he swiped it away quick, but Dillon had probably seen, and that was horrifying. He sat still, concentrating on the sound of his breathing and gathering himself together and planning all the ways he could be funny and inconsequential and forgettable for the next few days until Dillon couldn't remember he was kind of head case.

"Sorry," Dillon said quickly, and he didn't understand, and at least everyone else was still asleep.

"'s fine." Real convincing there. "Medicine makes me loopy."

"You're already sort of loopy."

Ziggy snorted accidentally, mostly because it was kind of funny that Dillon said the word 'loopy,' and that he probably really could blame on the drugs.

"Just lay down. Sleep it off."

Ziggy shook his head. He probably did need the sleep. But he didn't want to lay down. It was uncomfortable and he felt like he couldn't breathe right, and that may have been in his head, or it may have had something to do with his banged up ribs, he wasn't sure. "Jus' wanna sit for awhile."

"Fine," Dillon sighed, and he was probably being patronizing, and Ziggy couldn't imagine why. Dillon reached over and tugged the oversized sweat shirt, and Ziggy found himself leaning against a Ranger Black, head pillowed on the front of a shoulder, and it took pressure off his ribs, and it felt better, but it was leaning, and that wasn't allowed. "But you gotta get up before the others do. Summer's already planning bunk beds and Christmas cards." That didn't make sense, and Dillon must not realize that Ziggy had accidentally ended up leaning on him, and he tried to get up, and he forgot about slowly, and it hurt.

He hissed. Ow.

"Hey, stop moving. Was that your fault or mine?"

"Mine," Ziggy admitted through his teeth. "Sorry."

"Just quit moving around. You need something else?"

"No. 'm okay."

"Yeah. I'll probably never believe you again when you say that."

"Sorry."

Big, Black Ranger sigh. But Ziggy was still leaning, and it seemed like Dillon's idea. And Dillon _couldn't_ have known that's what Ziggy needed. People never just knew. People never just cared. Dillon was never just people. "You really feel okay now? You got close to not okay a whole lot of times recently."

That was true. And there was quiet worry somewhere in the words, and every time Ziggy had gotten close to not okay—_to_ _dead_—Dillon was the one who showed up being furious. "Yeah. 's better now," he whispered. "Thanks."

There was a grunt that probably meant 'You're welcome.'

It was quiet for a minute, and Ziggy was actually comfortable, and gradually, he let tense, sore muscles relax, and Dillon didn't say anything. "Dillon?"

"You really can't go three minutes without saying something, can you?"

"Not counting sleep or unconsciousness, my record is forty-two minutes. Actually."

"You talk in your sleep."

"I do _not_."

Dillon shrugged, and Ziggy sure hoped he was lying. Ziggy did not want to talk in his sleep. He had too many nightmares he didn't want to give away. "What were you gonna say?" Dillon's voice brought him back to his original point.

"Nothing. Just…I don't think I could stay awake a whole lot longer."

"That's the general idea. Take a nap, psycho."

"What about you?"

"I don't sleep."

Ziggy rolled his eyes. "Yes you do." Maybe not as much as normal people, but he did sleep. And that wasn't what Ziggy was asking anyway. This might be comfortable for Ziggy, but he didn't see how it could be for Dillon, and if Ziggy fell asleep, he didn't want Dillon to feel like he couldn't move.

"I'm fine."

"If you want…"

"You got really close to not okay a _lot_ of times recently," was all Dillon said. And the way he said it was like he was saying something. Ziggy's mouth clicked shut. It hadn't occurred to him, hadn't even begun to occur to him. That maybe Dillon being nice, staying close, wasn't just because he thought Ziggy needed it. Maybe Dillon was being nice, staying close, because he thought he needed it? Had it really bothered Dillon that much? Ziggy was mind-boggled. Positively. He'd never been irreplaceable. And yeah, so as the Green Ranger, what with the DNA-such-and-such bonding with the bio-yadda-yadda, technically, as an Operator, he was irreplaceable. But this wasn't about that. This was somebody who maybe would've missed _him_. Who'd been scared for _him._ That was…new.

And he could've been wrong, and maybe Dillon didn't mean it how it sounded. But Dillon was there. Giving him what he needed, not demanding something in return, not preying on his weakness. Just there. Just teammates. Just friends. Just family?

"You didn't let anything bad happen," Ziggy assured. Dillon snorted. "Well, okay, bad things happen. I'm kind of a magnet. Can't help that. But you didn't let anything...irreversible happen."

Dillon didn't say anything. Ziggy closed his eyes. Enjoyed the quiet for awhile. He could hear Summer and Scott and Flynn breathing, peaceful and near and already familiar. They were there because he was. Hadn't made it to their beds because he hadn't made it to his. And that was how teams worked, wasn't it? Fresno Bob always talked about the Scorpion cartel like they were a family, and once upon a time Ziggy thought that was what he wanted, but even that was never, _never_ like this. When he'd bonded with the morpher, he wasn't thinking about consequences. It just seemed like the only option, the only way to keep it from Tenaya 7, and he'd fumbled, and it had activated on his wrist, and it was done. He hadn't wanted to be the Green Ranger. Not at all.

"Nothing irreversible." Ziggy barely heard the whispered words, he mostly felt them under his ear. He wasn't sure if Dillon was talking to him or just talking. It didn't seem like Dillon would just be talking. And the words were low and deeply serious. "Promise." He wondered if Dillon thought he was asleep because he didn't think he was supposed to hear that. But it made him feel warm and about a million times stronger and about a million times more invincible.

No, he hadn't wanted to be the Green Ranger at all. But then…he kind of did. Kind of more than anything. Even if it was kind of by accident.

* * *

A/N: Remember how this was supposed to be a nice short, little oneshot? Yeah, remember that? Well, this chapter was supposed to be the shortest of them all. ::Checks word count. Is longest.:: So no. No self control. Mmhm, feel free to mock. Anyway, to celebrate my first official completed story to decorate my profile (or more likely because apparently I don't have the ability to write oneshots), thought I'd let you know I'm planning a sequel to this. After all, why is Ziggy so paranoid about hospitals? And what happened to Ronin between now and "Ranger Green"? And this former-Blue Crew Vick character-he get picked up by the police or what? So this sequel is to answer such questions as that, mostly the first, less the second and third. Hope you enjoyed. I had ridiculous amounts of fun. Thanks ever so to those who reviewed. It does much to brighten the day. Oh, and merry Christmas!


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